PART II

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Exemption from the authority of the ordinary legal or correctional tribunals was one of the remarkable features of the ancient universities, and the relics of it which have come down almost to the present day in Scotland are very curious. The university was a state in itself, where the administrators of the ordinary authority of the realm had no more power than in a neighbouring independent republic. So jealously was this authority watched and fenced, that usually when the dispute lay between the liegemen of the university and those of the State—between gown and town—the university haughtily arrogated the authority over both. To be sure, it was very much the practice of the age to adjust rights and privileges by balancing one against another—by letting them fight out, as it were, every question in a general contest, and produce a sort of rude justice by the antagonism and balance of forces, just as in some Oriental states at this day the strangers of each nation have the privilege of living under their native laws; a method which, by pitting privilege against privilege, and letting the stronger bear down the weaker, saves the central government much disagreeable and difficult work in the adjustment of rights and duties.

So, in the middle ages, we had the ecclesiastical competing with the baronial interests, and the burghal or corporate with both. Nay, in these last there was a subdivision of interests, various corporations of craftsmen being subject to the authority of their own syndics, deans, or mayors, and entitled to free themselves from any interference in many of their affairs by the burghal or even the royal courts. Ecclesiastical law fought with civil law, and chancery carried on a ceaseless undermining contest with common law; while over Europe there were inexhaustible varieties of palatinates, margravates, regalities, and the like, enjoying their own separate privileges and systems of jurisprudence. But over this Babel of authorities, so complexly established in France that Voltaire complained of changing laws as often as he changed horses, what is conspicuous is the homage paid by all the other exclusive privileges to those of the universities, and the separation of these grand institutions by an impassable line of venerated privileges from the rest of the vulgar world. Thus, the State conceded freely to literature those high privileges for which the Church in vain contended, from the slaughter of Becket to the fall of Wolsey. In a very few only of the States nearest to the centre of spiritual dominion, could an exclusive ecclesiastical jurisdiction extending to matters both spiritual and temporal be asserted; and France, which acknowledged the isolated authority of the universities, bade a stern defiance to the claims of the priesthood.

It can hardly be said that, invested with these high powers, the universities bore their honours meekly. Respected as they were, they were felt to be invariably a serious element of turbulence, and a source of instability to their respective governments. In the affairs of the League, the Fronde, and the various other contests which, in former days, as in the present, have kept up a perpetual succession of conflicts in turbulent Paris, the position to be taken by the students was extremely momentous, but was not easily to be calculated upon; for these gentry imbibed a great amount both of restlessness and capriciousness along with their cherished prerogatives. During the centuries in which a common spirit pervaded the whole academic body, the fame of a particular university, or of some celebrated teacher in it, had a concentrating action over the whole civilised world, which drew a certain proportion of the youth of all Europe towards the common vortex. Hence, when we know that there were frequently assembled from one to ten thousand young men, adventurous and high-spirited, contemptuous of the condition of the ordinary citizen, and bound together by common objects and high exclusive privileges—well armed, and in possession of edifices fortified according to the method of the day—we hardly require to read history to believe how formidable such bodies must have proved.

An incident in the history of a wandering Scotsman, though but a petty affair in itself, illustrates the sort of feudal power possessed by the authorities of a university. Thomas Dempster, the author of _Etruria Regalis_, and of a work better known than esteemed in Scottish Biography, in the course of his Continental wanderings found himself in possession of power—as sub-principal, it has been said, of the college of Beauvais, in the university of Paris. Taking umbrage at one of the students for fighting a duel—one of the enjoyments of life which Dempster desired to monopolise to himself—he caused the young gentleman’s points to be untrussed, and proceeded to exercise discipline in the primitive dorsal fashion. The aggrieved youth had powerful relations, and an armed attack was made on the college to avenge his insults. But Dempster armed his students and fortified the college walls so effectively that he was enabled, not only to hold his post, but to capture some of his assailants, and commit them as prisoners to the belfry. It appears, however, that like many other bold actions this was more immediately successful than strictly legal, and certain ugly demonstrations in the court of the Chatelain suggested to Dempster the necessity of retreating to some other establishment in the vast literary republic of which he was a distinguished ornament—welcome wherever he appeared. He had come of a race not much accustomed to fear consequences or stand in awe of the opinion of society. His elder brother had, among other ethical eccentricities—or, as they would now be justly deemed, enormities—taken unto himself for wife his father’s cast-off mistress; and when the venerable parent, old Dempster of Muiresk, intimated his disapproval of the connection, he was fiercely attacked by a band of the Gordon Highlanders, headed by his hopeful son. Defeated and put to flight with some casualties, the heir hoisted the standard of an independent adventurer in Orkney, where, setting fire to the bishop’s palace, he rendered the surrounding atmosphere too hot for him. He made his final exit in the Netherlands; and his conduct there must have been, to say the least of it, questionable, since his affectionate brother, whose conduct in Paris is the more immediate object of our notice, records that his doom was to be torn to pieces by wild horses. In such a family, flagellation would have little chance of being condemned as a degrading punishment, inconsistent with the natural dignity of man. Indeed, to admit the plain honest truth, the records of the Scottish universities prove to us that this pristine discipline was inflicted on its junior members; and it is especially assigned in Glasgow as the appropriate punishment for carrying arms. Local peculiarities of costume gave facilities for it in some instances, which were not so readily afforded by the padded trunk-hose and countless ribbon-points of the Parisian “swells” of Louis XIII.’s day. The Parisian aristocracy took serious umbrage at the conduct of Dempster; and he had to take his vast learning and his impracticable temper elsewhere.

This is a digression; but Thomas Dempster is a good type of those Scotsmen who brought over to us, from their own energetic practice, the observance of the Continental notions of the independence and power of the universities. His experience was ample and varied. He imbibed a tinge of the Anglican system at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. Besides serving and commanding in different colleges at Paris, he held office at Louvain, Rome, Douay, Tournay, Navarre, Toulouse, Montpelier, Pisa, and Bologna. A man who has performed important functions in all these places may well be called a citizen of the world. At the same time, his connections with them were generally of a kind not likely to pass from the memory of those who came in contact with him. He was a sort of roving Bentley, who, not contented with sitting down surrounded by the hostility of nearly all the members of one university, went about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might attack and insult, and left behind him wherever he went the open wounds of his sword, or of his scarcely less direful pen, scattered thickly around him. He was one of those who, as Anthony Arnaud said of himself, are to expect tranquillity only in a removal from that sublunary world in which, like pieces of clockwork wound up, they are doomed to a ceaseless motion during their vitality. Thomas Dempster has many sins to answer for, and at this day the most conspicuous of them is the cool impudence wherewith, in his _Historia Literaria Gentis Scotorum_, he makes every man whose birthplace is not notorious, and whose name gives any excuse for dubiety, a Scotsman—as, for instance, Macrobius, who is claimed in virtue of his _Mac_, and in forgetfulness that his is a Greek name, signifying long-lifed. Yet peace to our countryman’s long dispersed ashes. He was a fine type of the fervent, energetic, brave, enduring national character; and the ungoverned waywardness of his career was an earnest of what his countrymen might achieve when a better day should dawn upon their poor distracted land.

But to return to the exclusive judicial authority of the universities, and the relics of the system found in Scotland,—we do remember that on the occasion of one of those great snowball _emeutes_, which at intervals of years make the Edinburgh students frantic, the police had entered the quadrangle of the College and captured some of their sacred persons. The occurrence was improved on by the students of Aberdeen—then in possession of an organ of no despicable ability, called the _Aberdeen Magazine_—who maintained that their own academical edifices were sacred from civic intrusion, and pointed the finger of scorn at their southern brethren, who submitted without rebellion to invasion by a body of glazed-hatted constables, under the leadership of a superintendent of police. It was said, in retaliation, that the reason why the universities of Aberdeen were exempt from the visitations of the police was because there was no force of police constables in the northern capital; and it was maintained that whenever they should make their appearance there, they would pay no more respect to the precincts of the university than to those of the old privileged religious houses—whose boundaries, sacred some centuries ago from civic intrusion, are still set forth in the title-deeds of burghal estates. We know not how the matter may really stand, but we suspect that the broad-bonneted and broad-shouldered gentry who now make so curiously conspicuous a police in the streets of Aberdeen, are not sufficiently acquainted with the privileges of Marischal College to pay them the due deference.

Still we do find curious practical relics of the privileges of the universities. On the 19th of June 1509, a general convocation—_congregatio generalis_—of the University of Glasgow was held in the chapter-house of the cathedral—the now venerable University edifices had not then been built. In that assembly solemn discussion was held upon certain momentous matters, the first and most important of which was a representation by the Chancellor and temporary Rector of the University that the exclusive jurisdiction and adjudication of causes—_jurisdictio_, _causarumque cognitio_—were falling into desuetude, to the great prejudice of the University, and the no small diminution of its valuable privileges. The next notice that one finds in the _Records_ is a few years later—28th March 1522—but it is rather a conflict between the privileges of two of the universities than between the academic and the judicial authorities. In the general convocation of the University, Peter Alderstoun is accused of having served a citation from the Conservator of the Privileges (_Conservator Priviligiorum_) of the University of St Andrews on a certain Mr Andrew Smyth—the aristocratic spelling is older than we thought it had been in Scotland. The breach of privilege was aggravated by its occurring in the habitation of the Reverend David Kinghorn, Pensioner of Cross Raguel. The bailiff, or whatever else he might be, pleaded ignorance of the nature of the writ; but he was obliged, barehead, to seek pardon from the injured party. We find nothing more bearing on the question of the special university privileges, until, in the year 1670, a sudden and singularly bold attempt appears to be made for their revival, a court of justiciary being held by the University, and a student put on trial on a charge of murder. The weighty matter is thus introduced:—

“Anent the indytment given in by John Cumming, wryter in Glasgow, elected to be Procurator-Fiscal of the said University; and Andrew Wright, cordoner in Glasgow, neirest of kin to umquhile Janet Wright, servetrix to Patrick Wilson, younger, gairdner there, killed by the shot of ane gun, or murdered within the said Patrick his dwelling-house, upon the first day of August instant, against Robert Bartoun, son lawful of John Bartoun, gairdner in the said burgh, and student in the said University, for being guilty of the said horrible crime upon the said umquhile Janet.”[135]

A jury was impannelled to try the question. The whole affair bears a suspicious aspect of being preconcerted to enable the accused to plead the benefit of acquittal; for no objection is taken on his part to the competency of the singular tribunal before which he is to be tried for his life; on the contrary, he highly approves of them as his judges, and in the end is pronounced not guilty. The respectable burgesses who acted as jurymen had, however, as it appears, their own grave doubts about this assumption of the highest judicial functions; and we find them in this curious little document, which we offer in full, expressing themselves with that cautious and sagacious scepticism which is as much a part of the national character as its ardour and enthusiasm.

“Patrick Bryce, chancellor, and remanent persons who passed upon the said inquest, before they gave in their verdict to the said court, desired that they might be secured for the future, lest they might be quarrelled at any time hereafter for going on, and proceeding to pass on an inquest of the like nature, upon ane warning by the officer of the said University; and that in regard they declared the case to be singular, never having occurred in the age of before to their knowledge, and the rights and privileges of the University not being produced to them to clear their privilege for holding of criminal courts, and to sit and cognosce upon crimes of the like nature; whereunto it was answered by the Rector and his assessors that they opponed their being content to pass upon the said inquest _in initio_, and their making faith without contraverting their privilege; but notwithstanding thereof, for their satisfaction and _ex abundanti gratia_, they declared themselves and their successors in office enacted, bound, and obliged for their warrandice of all cost, skaith, danger, and expenses they or ane or other of them should sustain or incur through the passing upon the said inquest, or whilk could follow thereupon, through the said University their wanting of their original rights or writs for clearing to them the privilege and jurisdiction in the like cases. Whereupon the said Patrick Bryce, as Chancellor, for himself, and in name and in behalf of the haill remanent members of the said inquest, asked acts of court.”[136]

Though we are not aware of any instance in Scotland where the academic tribunals have arrogated, since the Reformation, so high a power, it is not difficult to find other instances where exemption has been claimed, even at a later period, from the ordinary powers that be. Thus the _Glasgow Records_ of the year 1721 bear that—

“The faculty, being informed that some of the magistrates of Glasgow, and particularly Bailie Robert Alexander, has examined two of the members of the University—viz., William Clark and James Macaulay, students in the Greek class—for certain crimes laid to their charge some time upon the month of February last, and proceeded to sentence against these students, contrary to and in prejudice of the University and haill members, do therefore appoint Mr Gershom Carmichael, &c., to repair to the said magistrates of Glasgow, and particularly Bailie Alexander, and demand the cancelling of the said sentence, and protest against the said practice of the said bailie or any of the magistrates for their said practice, and for remeid of law as accords.”[137]

It was the principle, not the persons—the protection of their privileges, not the impunity of their students—that instigated the faculty on this occasion, since in their next minute they are found visiting William Clark and James Macaulay with punishment for heavy youthful offences. We offer no apology for quoting, on such an occasion, these scraps from technical documents. It appears to us that when they are not oppressively long, or too professional for ordinary comprehension, there is no other way of affording so distinct a notion of any very remarkable social peculiarity, such as we account the exclusive liability of the members of universities to their own separate tribunals to have been.

Although the Scottish universities never boasted of the vast concourse of young men of all peoples, nations, and languages, which sometimes flocked to the Continental schools, and thus with their great privileges created a formidable _imperium in imperio_—yet naturally there has existed more or less of a standing feud between the citizen class and the student class. The records before us show repeated contests by the authorities of universities, against an inveterate propensity in the students to wear arms, and to use them. The weapons prohibited by the laws of King’s College, Aberdeen, are so varied and peculiar that we cannot venture to do their Latin names into English, and can only derive, from the terms in which they are denounced, a general notion how formidable a person a student putting the law at defiance must have been. But for the difference in the Latinity, one might suppose himself reading Strada’s celebrated account of the weapons in the Spanish Armada.[138]

From some incidental causes, a slight tinge of the desperado habits, indicated by such restrictions, lingered around the Scottish universities, and perhaps was most loth to depart from that northernmost institution to which the prohibitions specially applied. The main cause of their continuance may be attributed to the exigencies of the anatomical classes which gradually attached themselves to the schools of medicine. In obtaining subjects there was a perpetual contest with unmitigable prejudices; and as in the smaller university towns there were few or no people who followed systematically the trade of the resurrectionist, the students had to help themselves. It needed but the very fact of their having an occasional “subject” in the dissecting-room to expose them to an odious reputation, which no argument about the blessed results of the healing art, and the necessity of studying it in the structure of the human frame, could in the slightest degree mitigate. The feud thus caused was of a kind which widened as the progress of scientific acquirement enlarged the study of anatomy; and it seemed as if a permanent and deadly hostility against the progress of an essential science were daily deepening and widening, until public wrath, concentrated and accumulated, might be expected at last to burst on the devoted pursuit, and annihilate it. Though the students of anatomy were generally among those who had passed through the ordinary curriculum of studies, and no longer wore the distinguishing scarlet robe, yet their younger brethren were, not entirely without cause, mixed up in their misdeeds. Horrible stories of their waylaying children, and of their clapping plasters on the mouths of grown men met in lonely byways, which stopped the breath, and instantaneously extinguished life, were greedily believed, and founded tales capable of superseding _Bluebeard_ and _The One-handed Monk_ at the winter chimney-corner. Young lads in their early blushing scarlet were sometimes savagely assaulted, as if the poor innocents were ghouls in search of the horrible prey peculiar to their order. The public frenzy reached its climax on the revelation of the crimes of Burke and Hare. It almost as suddenly collapsed after the passing of the Anatomy Act, which removed from dissection that odium which previous legislation had factitiously imparted to it as part of the punishment of murder, and accompanied the change with special facilities for the obtainment of subjects. Hence more than twenty years have passed since the habits of our students were tainted by this incidental peculiarity, and its social effect must now be matter of tradition.

It can easily, however, be believed that the revolting preliminary which the votary of science had to undergo must have had an influence on his habits very far from propitious. The nocturnal expedition was occasionally joined by those who had not the excuse of scientific ardour, and thus the influence of the practice spread beyond the limits of the medical profession. The mysterious horrors surrounding the reputation of such a pursuit were not without a certain fascination to the young gownsmen, and some of them were supposed placidly to cultivate rather than suppress charges which would have seriously alarmed their more knowing and practical seniors. Though there was thus a good deal of exaggeration and boasting both from without and from within, yet the practice did exist among the senior students, while at the same time an occasional junior, approved for his boldness and discretion, might be admitted to act a subordinate part in a “resurrectionising affair.” Possibly he, if not the others, might find it necessary to employ some stimulant to brace his nerves for the formidable work in hand. Thus the adventure which provided the theatre of anatomy with the means of keeping a few students at hard work in one of the most important departments of human knowledge, had probably occasioned more than one night of fierce dissipation, and produced scenes which would have considerably astonished the good old aunts, deprecating the exhausting labours of their virtuous nephews in the nasty hospitals and that horrid dissecting-room.

The excesses which concentrated themselves around this solemn and cheerless pursuit, ramified themselves into others of a more fantastic and cheerful character. Probably it is all changed now; but they are not very old men who remember how the smaller university towns were subject to fantastic superficial revolutions. Trees, gates, railings, street lamps, summer-houses, shop signs, and other “accessories of the realty,” as lawyers call them, disappearing or changing places like the shifting of the side-slips in a theatre. Perhaps there may even be alive some who have witnessed or participated in such divertisements. Is there any one who will admit participation in that transmutation which scandalised the bailie, by exhibiting his suburban mansion under the auspices of the national achievement, as “licensed to sell spirits, porter, and ale,” just at the moment when the licentiate of the Red Lion was lamenting the disappearance of his insignia? Are none of those virtuous youths alive, who called next day to express their horror of the deed, and hold confidential communion with the bailie, thus obtaining access to his arsenal, and receiving the comfortable secret information—valuable for future conduct—that the blunderbuss, the musket, and the brace of pistols, were loaded with powder only, “but he wad warrant the scounrels wad get a fleg”? Who was it, we wonder, that, on the myrmidons of justice coming to his chambers, under the well-warranted suspicion that he possessed an extensive and varied collection of shop signs, had recourse to his incipient Scripture knowledge by an apt quotation in reference to those who seek what they do not succeed in obtaining? Is it probable that in any private neuks in old dwelling-houses there may exist relics of those prized museums not acquired without toil and risk—and exhibited with much caution only to trusted friends—which consisted mainly of watchmen’s rattles and battered lanterns? Lives there yet one of that laborious group, who wished to illuminate the mansion of Professor Blanc in proper style, and to that effect carried out a cluster of street lamps, and planted them all alight in his garden, so encountering labour and risk with no better reward than a reflection on the professor’s puzzled countenance when he should awaken and behold the phenomenon? _N.B._ Street lamps in those days were fed with oil, and were supported on wooden posts, which it was not difficult for a couple of strong youths to uproot.

But we are shocking the virtue and civilisation of the age by such queries. They hint at practices which we believe to be entirely eschewed by the superior class of young gentlemen who now frequent our universities. If we have created a throb of terror in an amiable parent’s breast, we humbly beg his pardon. He may take our word for it that his hopeful son is incapable of such pranks. This is mainly an antiquarian article, and the matter contained in it belongs more or less to the past, and is founded on document or tradition.

The semi-monastic foundations by which the students live under the discipline of colleges or halls, and assemble together at a common table, are indissolubly connected in English notions with the idea of a university. Yet the system arose as an adjunct to the original universities, and, as late inquirers have shown, the parasites have so overrun the parent stem that its original character is scarcely perceptible beneath their more luxuriant growth. The origin of these institutions is simple enough. When the great teachers brought crowds of young men together from all parts of Europe, the primary question was how they were to obtain food and shelter? and a second arose when these needs were supplied—how could any portion of the discipline of the parental home be administered to them among strangers? Certain privileges were given to the houses inhabited by the students, and streets and quarters sprung up for their accommodation, as we now see the rows of red-tiled cottages sprout forth like lichens around the tall chimney of a new manufactory. To prevent fluctuation, and preserve the academic character wherever it had once established itself, it was a frequent regulation that the houses once inhabited by students could be let to no other person so long as the rents were duly paid. We find traces of this expedient in the records of Glasgow, where there seems to have been great difficulty in accommodating the students of the infant university, on account of the extreme smallness of the town. Since the house once occupied by the student was thenceforth dedicated to his order, speculators were induced to build entirely with a view to the accommodation of a certain number of young men living in celibacy, and they naturally imitated the example set them in the construction of monasteries. The edifice and its use thus suggested something like the monastic discipline—and, indeed, an establishment filled with young men, having their separate dormitories and common table, yet without any head or system of discipline among them, would have been a social anomaly of the most formidable character. The university required to give its sanction to the well ordering of the separate institutions thus rising around it. At the same time munificent patrons of learning left behind them endowments for founding such institutions, indicating at the same time the method in which the founders desired that they should be governed, and appointing a portion of the funds to form stipendiary allowances to office-bearers. So arose those great colleges and halls which in England have buried the original constitution of the university beneath them.

In the great Continental universities which contained separate colleges, these were more strictly under the central control. In Scotland, the wealth at the disposal of the academic institutions, and the numbers attending them, were never sufficiently great to encourage the rise of separate bodies, either independent or subordinate. The system of monastic residence and a common table was adopted under the authority of the university, but it is remarkable that while so many of the fundamental features of the original institution have been preserved, this subsidiary arrangement has totally disappeared. The indications of its existence, however, as they are preserved in the records, have naturally considerable interest as vestiges of a social condition which has passed from the earth.

In the _Glasgow Records_ we have, of date 1606, a contract with Andrew Henderson touching the Boarding of the Masters and Bursars, commencing thus: “At Glasgow, the twenty-twa day of October, the year of God J^m VJ^c and aucht yeares: it is appoyntit and aggreit betwix the pairties following, viz., Mr Patrick Schairp, Principal of the College of Glasgow, and Regentes thairof, with consent of the ordinar auditouris of the said College compts, undersubscrivand on the ane part, and Andro Hendersoun, Burges of the said burgh on the uther part, in manner following.” Having afforded this initial specimen of the document, we shall take the liberty of somewhat modifying the spelling of such parts of the “manner following,” in quoting such portions of it as seem by their curious character to demand notice; and herein we may observe that we follow the example of a judicious Quaker we had once the pleasure of being made known to, who, after a solicitous desire to know the Christian name of his new acquaintance, with a few preliminary thee’s and thou’s—as much as to say, you see the set I belong to—afterwards ran into the usual current of conversation very much like a man of this world. Well, the document, with much precision, continues to say:—

“The manner of the board shall be this: At nine hours upon the flesh days—viz., Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday—the said Andrew shall prepare to the said masters, and others that pay as they pay, ane soup of fine white bread, or ane portion of cold meat, as best may be had, with some dry bread and drink. At twelve hours the said Andrew shall cover ane table in the hall of the said College, and shall serve them in brose, skink, sodden beef, and mutton, the best in the market, rosted mutton or veel, as the commodity of the season of the year shall serve, with a fowl, or the equivalent thereof, with good wheat bread, the best in the market, without scarcity, and ‘gud staill aill, aucht or ten dayis auld, that sall be bettir nor the haill aill in the town,’ and at supper suchlike. And on fish days the said Andrew shall furnish every ane in the morning ‘ane callour fresch eg, with sum cauld meit or milk and breid, and sum dry breid and drink; at noone, kaill and eggis, herring, and thrie course of fische, give thai may be had, or the equivalent thairof in breid and milk, fryouris with dry breid as of befoir,’ and at supper suchlike. The mess of the bursars, which immediately follows, must be given literatim: ‘On the fleshe dayis, in the morning, everie ane of thame, ane soup of ait breid and ane drink; at noone, broois with ane tailye of fresche beif, with sufficient breid and aill to drink; at evening, on the said manner, ane tailye of fresche beif to everie meiss. On fische dayis, breid and drink as in the flesche dayis; at disjoone, ane eg; at noone, eggis, herring, and ane uther course; at evening sicklyke.’”[139]

Probably such a bill of fare may dispel some notions about the sordid living of our ancestors, and the privations especially of those who dedicated themselves to a scholastic life. The existence of meagre days—or fish days, as they are called—in the year 1608, suggests explanations which we have not to offer. It would almost appear, however, that, at least in the dietary of the superior class, a fish day was one in which fish was added to a comfortable allotment of meat, instead of being substituted for it. Another contract occurs in the year 1649, varying little from “the said Andrew’s,” except in the addition of a few luxuries. The mess to be laid in the hall for dinner is to be “broth, skink, sodden beef, and mutton, the best in the market, with roasted mutton, lamb, veal, or hudderin, as the season of the year shall serve, with wheat bread and good stale ale; and at supper suchlike, with a capon or hen, or the equivalent.” The fish days continue to be distinguished less by the diminution of flesh—since there is to be two roasts in the day—than by the addition of fish. At supper there are to be sweetmeats and “stoved plumdamas,” which may be interpreted stewed prunes. Another article there introduced is called “stamped kaile.” The application of the participle is new to us, though, as every one ought to know, kail means broth, or what the French call _potage_; and a critic in such matters suggests that the word stamped may refer to the mashing of the materials. In the earlier of the contracts which we have referred to, the board-money was—for the master’s table, £30 per quarter, (Scots money, of course); and for the bursars’, £16. 13s. 4d. The value of money had so far risen that in the next period the sums were respectively £46 and £24. The master’s table was frequented by the young aristocracy of Scotland, apparently in as ample a proportion as those of England are now to be found at Oxford and Cambridge. Thus, in an inventory of occupied rooms, apparently in one floor, the aristocratic element has a decided preponderance in the nomenclature: “Lord James’s chamber, Francis Montgomerie’s chamber, Kilmarnock’s chamber, Richard Elphinstone’s chamber, George Smyth’s chamber, James Fleming’s chamber, Joseph Gill’s chamber, James Simson’s chamber.”[140]

It is not perhaps generally known that the practice of a common table was continued in St Andrews down to about the year 1820. In evidence before the University Commission in 1827, Dr Hunter stated that “there were two public tables; one of them, the higher table, was attended only by boarders, and by the bursars on the Ramsay mortification; the board was high, and the entertainment altogether was better: the other was the bursars’ table. The college was induced to contract with an economist or provisor to supply both tables; and if the boards fell short, or if the expense increased from the articles of subsistence being dearer than ordinary in any year, or exceeded the amount allowed by the contract, the College often compensated to him that loss.” Having thus offered some notices of the collegiate system in its full vitality, and traced it to its last lurking-place, we cannot help giving a place to the significant reflections which have occurred to the editor of the _Glasgow Records_ on the extinction of the system.

“In all the universities in Scotland, the old collegiate life, so favourable for scholastic discipline, has been abandoned. Perhaps the increasing numbers rendered living in college under the masters’ eye inconvenient; though some modification of the systems of living in the universities and the great schools of England might meet the difficulty. The present academic life in Scotland brings the master and the student too little in contact, and does not enable the teacher to educate in that which is more important than scholastic learning, nor to study and train the temper, habits, and character. If the alternative which has been chosen inferred that the student enjoyed the benefit of parental or domestic care when out of the lecture-room, the change might be less objectionable; but when we observe the crowds of young men brought from distant homes to our universities, living at large and altogether uncontrolled, except in the classroom, we may look back with some regret to the time when the good regent of a university, living among his pupils, came in the parent’s place as well as the master’s.

“But it was not only the discipline of the university that was benefited by the collegiate life. The spirit of fellowship that existed among young men set apart for the common object of high education, was on the whole favourable, though liable to exaggeration, and often running into prejudice. Nearly all that common feeling of the youth of a great university is gone. The shreds of it that are preserved by the dress, scarcely honoured in the crowded streets of a great city, and the rare occurrence of a general meeting of students, serve only to suggest to what account it might be turned for exciting the enthusiasm and raising the standard of conduct among the youth of Scotland. If such collections as the present, in revealing the old machinery of the scholar life, tend in any degree to the renewal of the bond of common feeling among the younger students, and of sympathy with their teachers, they will not be useless.”

We were led towards the vestiges of the collegiate system by the observation, that while in England it had overshadowed and concealed the original outline of the universities, it had in Scotland disappeared, leaving the primitive institutions in their original loneliness. When we contemplate, with this recollection, the decayed remains of the older universities, it will be seen that they were not so inferior in wealth and magnificence to those of our neighbours, as the mass of collegiate institutions which these have gathered around the primitive university might lead one to suppose. Undoubtedly Christ Church and King’s Chapel are fine buildings; but the remains of the chapels of St Salvator at St Andrews, and of King’s College in Aberdeen, are not to be despised. Of the former, alas! there are little more than the truncated walls and buttresses, with here and there a decoration to show what the edifice was when it stood forth in all its symmetry. Near the end of last century a suspicion was entertained that the roof was decayed and would fall. So groundless was the supposition, that after the workmen who were removing it had gone too far to recede, they found that they could not take it to pieces, but must first weaken its connection with the wall plates, and let it fall plump down. Of course it smashed to atoms nearly every interior ornament, and it just left enough of the marble tomb of its founder, Bishop Kennedy, to let us see what a marvellous group of richly-cut Gothic work it must have originally been. Within it there were found, among other ornaments, a heavy silver mace of Parisian workmanship, wonderful as the tomb itself for the quaint intricacy of its workmanship.

The chapel of King’s College has fared better. Like a modest northern wild-flower, its beauties are hidden from the common gaze of the peering tourist, but to the adepts who examine them they are of no ordinary character. From the difficulty of working the indigenous granite, and the cost of importing freestone, the Gothic builders of this district seem to have been frugal in their stone decorations, so that the glory of King’s College consists in its interior wood-work of carved oak, worked in architectural forms, like fairy masonry. We question if there is anywhere a collection of specimens of Gothic fretwork more varied and delicate.

It is difficult to conceive anything more depictive of high and daring educational aspirations than the planting of this beautiful edifice in so distant a spot, as the place of worship of those students who were to flock to it from the wild hills and dreary moors of the north. Its founder was Bishop Elphinston, an ardent scholar, a traveller, and a frequenter of the Continental universities, who might rather have been expected, had he followed the dictates of his refined tastes instead of his conscientious convictions, and his zeal for the spread of learning, to have spent his days among the Continental scholars, than to have carried their learning across the Grampians. The character of the foundation may be derived from the following abstract of the Bull of erection of 1495, prefixed to the Spalding edition of the _Fasti Aberdonienses_.

“Bull of Pope Alexander VI., issued on the petition of James IV., King of Scots, which sets forth that the north parts of his kingdom were inhabited by a rude, illiterate, and savage people, and therefore erecting in the City of Old Aberdeen a ‘Studium Generale’ and University, as well for theology, canon and civil law, medicine, and the liberal arts, as for any other lawful faculty, to be there studied and taught by ecclesiastical and lay Masters and Doctors, in the same manner as in the ‘Studia Generalia’ of Paris and Bologna, and for conferring on deserving persons the degrees of Bachelor, Licentiate, Doctor, Master, and all other degrees and honourable distinctions; conferring on William, Bishop of Aberdeen, and his successors, the office of Chancellor, empowering them, or, during the vacancy of the See, the Vicar deputed by the Chapter, to confer these degrees in all the faculties on such well-behaved scholars as shall, after due examination, be deemed fit by the Rector, Regents, Masters, or Doctors of the faculty in which the degree is sought; granting to such graduates full power of teaching in this or any other _studium_, without any other examination; giving power to the Chancellor or his Vicar, the Rector for the time, and the resident Doctors, with the assistance of a competent number of Licentiates in each faculty, and of circumspect scholars of the said _studium_, and of two of the King’s Councillors at the least, to make statutes for the good government thereof; and conferring on the students and graduates thereof all the privileges and immunities of any other University. 10 February, 1494–5.”

The character of the institution, and the extent to which it embodied the matured practices of the foreign universities, will be more amply understood by a document, dated a few years later, in the shape of a collegiate endowment by the Bishop, applicable, along with the foundation of a certain Duncan Scherar, to thirty-six members.

“Of the foresaid thirty-six persons, five to be Masters of Arts and Students of Theology, exercising the functions of the priesthood, and daily acting as readers and Regents in Arts, each having a stipend of ten pounds, four of them being paid out of the lands and feu-duties assigned by the Bishop, and the fifth out of the foundation of the foresaid Duncan Scherar; thirteen to be scholars or poor clerks, fit for instruction in speculative knowledge, and whose parents cannot support them at scholastic exercises, twelve of them having each a stipend of twelve merks from the revenues of the said churches, with chambers and other college conveniences, and the thirteenth a stipend of five pounds from the foundation of the said Duncan Scherar; the five Students of Theology to be supported for seven years until they are licensed, and one of these, of sweet temper, to be selected by the Principal and Sub-principal to read and teach poetry and rhetoric to the other Students; and the Students in Arts to be supported for three years and a half until made Masters; at the end of which periods, these Students of Theology and Arts, whether graduated or not, to be removed, and others instituted in their stead; the Principal, Canonist, Civilist, Mediciner, Sub-principal, and Grammarian, to be nominated by the Bishop and his successors, Chancellors of the University; the Students of Theology to be admitted by the Chancellor, and nominated by the Rector, Dean of Faculty of the Arts, Principal and Sub-principal; and the thirteen Scholars to be admitted in like manner, and nominated by the above parties and the Regent of Arts; of the thirteen Students in Arts, the two first to be of the name of Elphinstoun, who, after being graduated in Arts, shall be admitted among the Students of Theology, and three to be from the parishes of Aberlethnot, Glenmyk, Abirgerny, and Slanis: all the members to have their residence within the College, except the Canonist, Mediciner, Grammarian, and Regent, who are to have manses without the College; the Principal and the Students of Theology, after being made Bachelors, to read Theology every reading-day, and to preach six times a year to the people; and the Students, before being made Bachelors, to preach by turns in Latin in the Chapter of the College on every Lord’s day and holiday throughout the year before all the students; the Regents in Arts to give instruction in the liberal sciences, like the Regents of the University of Paris; and the Canonist, Civilist, and Mediciner to read in proper attire every reading-day, after the manner observed in the Universities of Paris and Orleans; the Rector or (if he be a member of the College) the Dean of the Faculty of Arts, and the Official of Aberdeen, to visit the College once a year, and to mark defects in the persons and property of the College, an account of which shall be written by four persons, deputed for that effect, and presented to the Chancellor, who, with their advice, shall administer correction; a Procurator to be selected from the College by the Principal, Canonist, Civilist, Sub-principal, Cantor, and Sacrist, and to have for his pains, in addition to his stipend, five merks; eight Prebendaries and four youths, accomplished in singing, to be in the College, and to celebrate matins, vespers, and mass, in surplices and black copes, in the presence of the members of the college; the first of these Prebendaries to be called the Cantor, and the second the Sacrist, each with a stipend of twenty merks; the other prebendaries (from among whom the Chancellor must appoint one who is a proficient on the organ) having sixteen merks, and each of the youths five merks. 17 September 1505.”

It is curious to mark how distinctly the traces of its French origin have remained in the northern University. In addition to some instances in the preceding article, it is worthy of notice that the Students, and even the common people, are still familiar with such words as Bejant and Magistrand.

Can our chubby friend there, who blushes as brightly as the fresh scarlet gown in which he has gone forth to attract the gaze, more spiteful than admiring, of the untogaed schoolfellows whom he has left behind him, tell why he is called a Bejant?

Ducange tells us that _Beanus_ means a new student who has just come to the academy, and cites the statutes of the University of Vienna, prohibiting all persons from cheating or overcharging the new-comers, who are called Beani, or assailing them with other injuries or contumelies. Lambecius, in the _Epistolæ Obscurorum_, finds Beanus in a monogram—“Beanus est animal nesciens vitam studiosorum.” We come nearer the mark, however, in France, the _Bejauni_ frequently occurring in Bulleus’s massive History of the University of Paris. Thus, in the year 1314, a statute of the University is passed on the supplication of a number of the inexperienced youths, _qui vulgo Bejauni appellebantur_. Their complaint is an old and oft-repeated tale, common to freshmen, greenhorns, griffins, or by whatever name the inexperienced, when alighting among old stagers, are recognised. The statute of the Universitas states that a variety of predatory personages fall on the newly-arrived bejaune, demanding a _bejaunica_, or gratuity, to celebrate a _jocundus adventus_; that when it is refused, they have recourse to insults and blows; that there is brawling and bloodshed in the matter, and thus the discipline and studies of the University are disturbed by the pestiferous disease. It is thence prohibited to give any _bejaunica_, except to the bejaun’s companions living in the house with him, whom he may entertain if he pleases; and if any efforts are made by others to impose on him, he is solemnly enjoined to give secret information to the procurators and the deans of the faculties.[141]

The etymology attributed to the word bejaune is rather curious. It is said to mean yellow neb—_béc jaune_—in allusion to the physical peculiarity of unfledged and inexperienced birds, to whose condition those who have just passed from the function of robbing their nests to the discipline of a university are supposed to have an obvious resemblance. “Ce mot,” says the _Trevaux_, “a été dit par corruption de béc jaune, per métaphore de oisons et autres oiseaux niais qui ont le béc jaune—ce qu’on a appliqué aux apprentis en tous les arts et sciences.—_Rudis Tiro Imperitus._” Yet in the same dictionary there are such explanations about the use of the words _begayer_, to stutter, and _begayement_, stuttering, as might, one would think, have furnished a more obvious origin than the ornithological. “Les enfans,” we are told, “begayent en apprenant à parler. Ceux qui ont la langue grasse begayent toute leur vie. Quand un homme a bû beaucoup il commence a _begayer_.” But it is used also figuratively: “Des choses qu’on a peine d’expliquer, ou de faire entendre—Ce commentateur n’a fait que begayer en voulant expliquer l’Apocalypse.” Whatever were its remote origin, however, the term was in full use in the University of Paris, whence it passed to Aberdeen. We have now shown our scarlet friend the reason for his being called a Bejant, but why the word should be corrupted into Benjie, and still more why he should be called a “Buttery benjie,” are etymological problems which we no more pretend to solve, than the reason why his fellow freshman at Heidelberg is called a Leathery fox.

We could notice several other relics of ancient university phraseology still clinging round the usages of our humble institutions in Scotland. The Lauration is still preserved as the apt and classical term for the ceremony of admission to a degree; and even Dr Johnson, little as he respected any Scottish form, especially when it competed with the legitimate institutions of England, has given in his dictionary the word Laureation, with this interpretation attached thereto: “It denotes in the Scottish universities the act or state of having degrees conferred, as they have in some of them a flowery crown, in imitation of laurel among the ancients.”

Elsewhere we are honoured in the same work with a more brief but still a distinctive notice. Among the definitions of “Humanity,” after “the nature of man,” “humankind,” and “benevolence,” we have “Philology—grammatical studies; in Scotland, _humaniores literæ_.” The term is still as fresh at Aberdeen as when Maimbourg spoke of Calvin making his humanities at the College of La Mark. The “Professor of Humanity” has his place in the almanacs and other official lists as if there were nothing antiquated or peculiar in the term, though jocular people have been known to state to unsophisticated Cockneys and other foreign persons, that the object of the chair is to inculcate on the young mind the virtue of exercising humanity towards the lower animals; and we believe more than one stranger has conveyed away, in the title of this professorship, a standing illustration of the elaborate kindness exercised towards the lower animals in the United Kingdom, and in Scotland especially.

A curious incidental matter calls us back to King’s College and its connection with Paris. In his visit to Scotland in 1633, Charles I. observed, or learned from his adviser, Archbishop Laud, who had more prying eyes, that the ancient formalities of the Scottish universities had fallen into disuse. It appears that his hopes of a restoration were chiefly centred in Aberdeen, where he knew that the Presbyterian spirit had its loosest hold, and he resolved to commence the work there. A curious royal letter to Patrick Forbes, Bishop of Aberdeen, and Chancellor of the University, drops mysterious hints about having “observed some things which we think fit to put in better ordour, which we shall do as we shall find cause.” But in the mean time there is a very strong reprehension of the unacademic practice of sending the students “to the parish churches to service and sermon, and there sit promiscuously with the rest of the audience, which loses much of the honour and dignity of the Universities.”

The cause of University restoration, after such a kingly hint, naturally received much local support; and at a sort of convocation of the University dignitaries at the Bishop’s Palace on the 19th of December 1634, some investigations were made to obtain materials “for re-establishing of this University in her jurisdiction, conservatorie, and privileges, according to her ancient rights granted thereanent.” Among the other methods of inquiry, there is sent “a special letter to our native countryman and special good friend, Dr William Davidson, Doctor of Physic, and resident in Paris in France, requesting him to deal, in name of the said University of Aberdeen, with the rector and University of Paris, for a just and perfect written double of the rights and privileges of that University of Paris, for the better clearing and setting in good order the rights and privileges belonging to this University of Aberdeen.”[142]

A letter from Archbishop Laud is read to the meeting, showing that he was in communication with the restorers. “For the business which you have recommended to me,” he says, “Dr Gordon hath been with me, and delivered me a copy of all those things which he hath to move the king. I have already spoken with his majesty about them, and shall continue to do him all the kindness I can to help on his despatch, and to show all the favour I can to the University.”[143]

It would be interesting to know more than the printed documents show us of the projects then under discussion. Laud was a meddler with many things—in Scotland, unfortunately, with at least one too many. His activity in university matters is sufficiently known to fame in the Laudeian Code of Oxford. But it has been the fate of that system to be charged with a subversion of the fundamental principles of the English universities, while in Aberdeen the movement which its author seems to have directed was towards the restoration of the old Parisian model. The apparent difference, however, has been probably caused by unintended practical results in England,—the object was doubtless the same in both cases.

Among the projects of King Charles with which his adviser of course interfered, was the union of King’s and Marischal Colleges in Aberdeen. In fact, they are not only two colleges, but, in the literal sense of the term, two universities; and thus, according to the statistical distribution of these institutions, Aberdeen used to appear as well supplied with the commodity as all England. Between the two establishments, little more than a mile apart, there is, indeed, unfortunately, a gulf, wider than the mileage between Oxford and Cambridge. The one was founded before, the other after, the Reformation; and there were elements so distinct and repulsive in the spirit of the foundations, that nothing but great coercive force could bring the two into union.

King Charles, who was too apt to suppose that fundamental changes could be made by an Act of Visitation, or an Order in Council, professed to unite them, and called them, in conjunction, the Caroline University. But in reality they never were chemically fused into one. On the contrary, the documents connected with the nominal union, which at this juncture may perhaps be read with some interest, lead one to suppose that the two bodies of office-bearers could hardly have met round the same table without kicking each other’s shins. The senior institution exhibits itself as overbearing and dictatorial—the junior as sensitive to every slight. All latent hatreds seem to have sprung into vivid life on the command to be united in peace. The juveniles appear to have taken the matter up, and each college passes a law requiring that its students shall not insult the professors of the other,—apparently with the same effect, if not intention, as the Irish injunction not to duck the bailiff in the horse-pond. We wonder if the same thing is to be repeated in this day. We have heard it, indeed, maintained from a very grave authority, that nearly all things are possible save the fusion of these institutions; that it may have been easy to unite England and Scotland, or Great Britain and Ireland, but that the eternal laws of the universe show it to be impossible to unite the King’s College and University of Aberdeen with the Marischal College and University thereof.

CIVILISATION.—THE CENSUS.

My dear Eusebius,—If you wonder at the speculations with which I have amused myself and bewildered all within reach of inquiry, remember what a celebrated phrenologist said, that I should never make a philosopher: you remarked, So much the better, for that the world had too many already. I am not sure that I was not piqued; and, owing a little spite against these unapproachable superiors—philosophers—have rather encouraged a habit of posing them; and finding so many in this my experience inferior to the common-sense portion of mankind, I amuse myself with them, and treat them as monkeys, now and then throwing them a nut to crack a little too hard for them. Wry faces break no syllogisms, so we laugh, and they gravitate in philosophy. What is civilisation? Is that a nut?—a very hard one, indeed. I, at least, cannot tell what it is, in what it consists, or how this _summum bonum_ is to be attained; but I am no philosopher. I have taken many a one by the button, and plunged him head foremost into the chaos of thought, and seen him come out flushed with the suffocation of his dark bewilderment. Less ambitious persons will scarcely stay to answer the question—What is civilisation? The careless, who cannot answer it, laugh, and think they win in the game of foolishness. Perhaps no better answer can be given, and the laughing philosopher, after all, may be as wise as the speaking one. A neighbour, who had been acquainted with the money markets, told me he did not exactly know what it was, but he thought its condition was indicated by the Three-per-cent Consols. An economist of the new school, who happened to be on a visit to him, preferred as a test “American bread-stuffs.” He argued that such stuffs were the staff of life, supported life, and were, therefore, both civilisation and the end and object of civilisation. My neighbour’s son Thomas, a precocious youth of thirteen years of age, stepped forward, and said civilisation consisted in reading, writing, and arithmetic: upon this, a parish boy, the Inspector’s pet of the National School, said with rival scorn, “You must go a great deal farther than that—it is knowledge, and knowledge is knowing the etymologies of cosmography and chronology.” I asked the red-faced plethoric Farmer Brown;—“What’s what!” quoth he, with a voice of thunder, and, like a true John Bull, stalked off in scornful ignorance. My next inquiry was of your playful little friend, flirting Fanny of the Grove, just entering her fifteenth year. “What a question!” said she, and her very eyes laughed deliciously—“the latest fashions from Paris, to be sure.” Make what you please of it, Eusebius; put all the answers into the bag of your philosophy, and shake them well together, your little friend’s will have as good a chance as any of coming up with a mark of truth upon it. The people that can afford to invent fashions must have a large freedom from cares. There must be classes who neither toil nor spin, yet emulate in grace, beauty, and ornament the lilies of the field. If you were obliged to personify civilisation, would you not, like another Pygmalion, make to yourself a feminine wonder, accumulate upon your stature every grace, vivify her wholly with every possible virtue, then throw a Parisian veil of dress over her, and—oh, the profanation of your old days!—fall down and worship her?

There is no better mark of civilisation than well-dressed feminine excellence, to which men pay obeisance. Wherever the majority do this, there is humanity best perfected. Homer teacheth that, when he exhibits the aged council of statesmen and warriors on the walls of Troy paying homage to the grace of Helen. The poet wished to show that the personages of his Epic were not barbarians, and chose this scene to dignify them. Ruminate upon the answer, “The latest fashions from Paris.” What a mass of civilising detail is contained in these few words!—the leisure to desire, the elegance to wear, the genius to invent, the benevolent employment of delicate hands, the trades encouraged, the soft influences—the very atmosphere breathes the most delicate perfume of loves. It is not to the purpose to interpose that this Paris of fashion suddenly turned savage, and revelled in brutal revolution, sparing not man nor woman. It was because, in their anti-aristocratic madness, the unhappy people threw off this reverential respect that the uncivilised portion slaughtered the civilised. It was a vile atheistical barbarism that waged war with civilisation. Think no more of that black spot in the History of Humanity—that plague-spot. Rather, Eusebius, turn your thoughts to your work, and fabricate, though it be only in your imagination, your own paradise, and she shall be named Civilisation. In case your imagination should be at this moment dull, rest satisfied with a description of an image now before me, which I think, as a personification, answers the question admirably; for supposing it to be a portrait from nature, what a civilised people must they be among whom such a wonder was born—not only born, but sweetly nurtured, and arrayed in such a glory of dress! If you think this indicates a foolish extravagant passion, know that this fair one must have “died of old age” some centuries before I was born. There she is, in all her pale loveliness, in a black japan figured frame, over the mantelpiece of my bedroom at H——, where I am now writing this letter to you. Mock not, Eusebius; she is, or rather was, Chinese. I look upon her now as giving out her answer from those finely-drawn lips—“I represent civilisation.” If I could pencil like that happy painter—happiest in having such uncommon loveliness to sit to him—I would send you another kind of sketch; it would be a failure. Be content with feeble words. First, then, for dress: She wears a brown kind of hat, or cap, the rim a little turned up, of indescribable shape and texture: the head part is blue; around it are flowers, so white and transparent, just suffused with a blush, as if instantaneously vitrified into china. Lovely are they—such as botanical impertinences never scrutinised. On the right side of this cap or hat two cock’s feathers, perfectly white, arch themselves, as if they would coquet with the fairer cheek. You see how firm they are, and would spring up strong from the touch, emblems of unyielding chastity. The hair, little of which is seen, is of a chestnut-brown; low down on the throat is a broad band of black, apparently velvet, just peeping above which is the smallest edging of white, exactly like the most modern shirt-collar, fastened above, where it is parted, by a gold clasp. The upper dress is of a pink red, such as we see in Madonna pictures; below this is a dark blue-green shirt-dress, richly flowered to look like enamel; over the shoulders a Madonna kerchief, fastened in a knot over the chest; it is of a clear brownish hue, such as we see in old pictures. The upper red dress does not meet, but terminates on each, side with a gold border, of a pattern centre, with two lines of gold. Thus a rather broad space is left across the bosom, which in modern costume is occupied by a habit-shirt; but such word would ill describe either the colour or the texture here worn; it is of a gossamer fabric, of a most delicately-greenish white, diapered and flowered all over; nothing can be conceived more exquisite than this. It would make the fortune of a modern _modiste_ to see and to imitate it. A clasp of elegant shape fastens skirt to upper dress; the sleeve of upper dress reaches only half-way down the arm; the lower sleeve is of the rich blue-green, but altogether ample. Attitude, slightly bent forward; over the left arm, which crosses the waist, is suspended a fruit-basket of unknown material, and finely patterned, brown in colour, in which are grapes and other fruit; expression, sweetly modest; complexion—how shall it be described? Never was European like it. It is finest porcelain, variegated with that under-living immortal ichor of the old divinities. Eyes clear-cut or pencilled, rather hazel in colour; background, rockwork garden, rising to a hill, on which are trees—but such trees! Aladdin may have seen the like in his enchanted subterranean garden. Then there is a lake, and a boat on it, at a distance, with an awning. She is the goddess, or the queen, of this Elysium, which her presence makes, and has enchanted into a porcelain earth, whose flowers and trees are of its lustre.

Wherever, Eusebius, this portrait was taken, it was, and is, an epitome, an emblem of high civilisation. It speaks so plainly of all exemption from toil and care, of the unapproachableness of danger. There is living elegance in a garden of peace. It is, in fact, the type of civilisation. What! will the economist, the philosopher of our day, be ready to say,—Civilisation amongst Chinese and Tartars! and that centuries perhaps ago. Civilisation is “The Nineteenth Century!” The glory of the Nineteenth Century is the Press. We are Civilisation. Very well, gentlemen; nevertheless it would be pleasant if you could exhibit a little more peace and quietness, a little less turmoil, a little more unadulterating honesty, a little less careworn look in your streets, as the mark of your boasted civilisation. You are doing wonders, and, like Katerfelto with his hair on end, are in daily wonderment at your own wonders. You steam—annihilate space and time. You have ripped open the bowels of knowledge, and well-nigh killed her in search of her golden egg. You are full, to the throat and eyes, of sciences and arts. You are hourly astonishing yourselves and the world. Nevertheless, you have one great deficiency as to the ingredients that make up civilisation; you are decidedly too conceited; you lack charity; you count bygone times and peoples as nothing and nobodies: yet you build a great Crystal Palace, and boast of it, as if it were all your own; whereas the whole riches of it, in the elegances of all arts, are imitations of the works of those bygone times and peoples. Who is satisfied with your model-civilisation? Eusebius, is not the question yet to be asked—What is it? in what does it consist? how is it to be obtained? True civilisation has no shams—we have too many, and they arise out of our swaggering and boasting; so that we force ourselves to assume every individual virtue, though we have it not. We are contemptuous; and contempt is a burr of barbarism sticking to us still, even in this “Nineteenth Century,” a phrase in the public mouth glorifying self-esteem. I must, for the argument, go back to the Chinese lady in her narrow japanned gilt frame. As I have drawn my curtains, Eusebius, at the dawn of day, and that placid beauty (though not to be admitted in any book of that name) has smiled upon me from lips so delicate, so unvoracious—did she pick grains of rice, like Amine in the Arabian tale?—I verily thought she must have lived in as civilised an age as ours. Yes—perhaps she was not very learned, excepting in Chinese romances, and very good learning that is: but neither you nor I, Eusebius, lay very great stress upon knowledge, nor call it “Power,” nor think that happiness necessarily grows out of it. One evil of it is, that it unromances the age; and romance—why not say it?—romance is a main ingredient in true, honest, unadulterated civilisation. You would prefer being as mad as Don Quixote, and be gifted with his romance, to being the aptest of matter-of-fact economists and material philosophers. Romance, then, springs from the generous heart and mind;—methinks, Eusebius, you are progressing, and reaching one of the ingredients of this said desideratum, “Civilisation.” As a people, it may be doubted if we are quite as romantic as formerly; if so, however we may advance in knowledge and sciences, we are really retrograding from the _summum bonum_ of social virtues. I remember once hearing a celebrated physician, who knew as much as most men of mankind, their habits and manners, speak of an American “gentleman,” adding, “and he was a savage.” You can imagine it possible, that, in the presence and impertinence of Anglo-Saxon vulgarity, the grave and courteous demeanour of a so-called barbarian would be a very conspicuous virtue. I read the other day, in Prince’s _Worthies of Devon_, a quaint passage to the point, which much amused me for its singular expression. It relates to Sir Francis Drake, who, touching at one of the Molucca Islands, was, as the author words it, “by the king thereof, a true _gentleman pagan_, most honourably entertained.” Of this “gentleman pagan” Prince adds, that he told General Drake “that they and he were all of one religion, in this respect, that they believed not in gods made of stocks and stones, as did the Portuguese; and further, at his departure he furnished him with all the necessaries that he wanted.” Yet, perhaps, some of the habits of such gentlemen pagans had been scoffed at by Europeans, and often met with worse usage than contempt. Whoever has no consideration for others, no indulgence for habits contrary to his own, though he may be born in nominally the most civilised nation under the sun, is really a barbarian. It was well said that, upon the accidental meeting of the finest drest gentleman, with a powdered head, and a tatooed Indian, he who should laugh first would be the savage. The well-known story of the horror expressed by different people at the disposal of their deceased parents is curious, showing that opposite actions arise from the same feelings. In this case it was of filial piety. One party was asked if he would bury his father in the earth? He was amazed at the question—shocked. Not for the world; as an act of piety, he would eat him. The other, asked to eat his father, was hurt and disgusted beyond measure. Let us be a little more even in our judgments, and speak somewhat kindly, if we can, of these gentlemen pagans all over the world. We may be often called upon to admire their disinterested heroism, even when lavished upon mistaken objects. Here is an example from the misnamed weaker sex—misnamed, for they are wonderfully gifted with fortitude. I have been reading of a poor young creature, widow of a chief among some cannibal race. She was to have been immolated, according to custom, at the burial of her husband. Her courage at the moment failed her: she was induced by, if I remember rightly, some good missionaries, to fly, and they protected her. In the night she repented of her irresolution, escaped, swam across a river, and presented herself for the sacrifice and the feast. Scholars, you read with love and admiration of Iphigenia at Aulis; her first reluctance; her after self-devotion: you have imagined her youth, her beauty, so vividly painted by the poet. Was Iphigenia more the heroine than this poor girl whom we are pleased to pass unhistoried as a savage? She gave herself up, not only to death, perhaps a cruel one, but with the knowledge that she would be devoured also that night. Iphigenia was certain of funeral honours, of immortal fame, and believed that her sacrifice would insure victory to her father and the Greeks. We have written exercises at school in praise of the suicide of Cato, whose act, in comparison with this poor savage’s, was cowardice;—more than that, we have been taught to mouth out with applause the blasphemy of the celebrated hexameter, “Victrix causa Diis placuit sed victa Catoni.” Why should we not be a little more even in our judgments? The poor gentlemen pagans of the islands would cut as good a figure as heathen Cato, if their names and deeds could be turned into tolerable Latin, and passed off as of the classical age. Henley, in a letter to Swift, tells the speech of a farmer, who said, “If I could but get this same breath out of my body, I’d take care, by G—, how I let it come in again!” Henley makes the pithy remark, “This, if it was put into fine Latin, I fancy would make as good a sound as any I have met with.”

I did not mean to induce a belief, Eusebius, that the Chinese excelled in the fine arts when I wrote down the description of the Chinese lady. The portrait had its peculiarities, and would not have been hung upon the line in the Royal Academy. I only chose it for its historical expression, which spoke of civilisation of manners, of security, and as containing in itself things which civilised people boast of. But there the argument is not very much in favour of this our “Nineteenth Century;” for the chiefest works of art in painting are of the _cinque cents_. It is not pretended that we have thrown into oblivious shade the masters of old celebrity; nor that we have made better statues than did Phidias and Praxiteles; nor excelled the Greeks in architecture; nor even the artist builders of the ages which we are pleased to style “Dark;” so that we have at least lost some marks of civilisation. Nay, to come to nearer times for comparison: It would be a hard thing for our swaggerers to find a dramatist willing to be taken by the collar, and contrasted face to face with the portraits of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, taking their plays as their representatives. There were worthies of a high romance in the civilised days of the “Glorious Gloriana.” What marks of essential civilisation are visible in the comedies of Shakespeare—what delightful mixture of the real and unreal—the mind springing from its own natural elasticity above the fogs and blight of worldly business, that ever tend to keep the spirits from rising! And why say comedies? Tragedies too. How fresh is the atmosphere mankind seem then to breathe. Humanity is made lovable or dignified. If we might judge of civilisation from the works of writers of that age, we might be justified in pronouncing it most civilised, for it was governed by a vivid and romantic spirit. Take as contrast the literature of Queen Anne’s boasted time. It is quite of another spirit. There is a descending, a degradation of the whole mind. There begins visible worldliness. We see man taking his part in the affairs of the world for what he can get as an individual. There is a prominence of the business, and less made of the enjoyments of life;—the commercial spirit predominating, which has since overwhelmed the imaginative faculties, and buried the better, the more civilised pleasures of life, under the weight of avarice. We are, my dear Eusebius, too money-loving and money-getting to deserve the name of a thoroughly civilised people. Is a true and just perception of the fine arts a sign of civilisation? What is admired—what is eagerly purchased—what intellectual food do the purchases convey? Is the mere visual organ gratified by the lowest element of the arts—imitation—or the mind’s eye enlarged to receive and love what is great and noble? In one sense, undoubtedly, the art of living is better understood, because, the romance of life fading away, personal comforts and little luxuries become exigencies, and engross the thoughts, filling up the vacancies that romance has left. Shall I shock you, my dear Eusebius, if I add my doubts if liberty is either civilisation or a sign of it? Great things have been done in the world, where there has been little of it enough, as well as where there has been much. The fine arts are certainly not much indebted to it.

There is much in the question which yet remains to be considered. The questioned may well ask, as did the heathen philosopher on one more important, and of an infinite height and depth—another day of thought to answer it, and each succeeding day another still. Is civilisation that condition in which all the human faculties may be so continually exercised, as to make the more intellectual moral and religious being? when the plant humanity, like every other plant, shall by cultivation assume a new character and even appearance? I fear this condition necessarily implies a degradation also. For as in no state do the many reach the high standard, equality must be destroyed, so that inferiority will not only have its moral mark, but also its additional toil, far above the share it would have supposing a state nearer equality.

But then, it may be answered, the question is not about the many, but regards only examples, without considering number. Human plants may be exhibited of extraordinary culture and beauty—beauty that must be seen and admired—and, if so, imitated; and this law of imitation will draw in the many, in process of time, to improvement. Very true, Eusebius; and in a race naturally energetic, this imitation—while, on the whole, it will improve general manners—creates a social vice, affectation—which is vulgarity. The example of our Anglo-Saxon race is to the point—of wondrous energy, but in no race under the sun is vulgarity so conspicuous. If, then, the condition which forces all the human faculties to exertion be that of civilising tendency, does it follow that it is one of the greatest happiness? The history of the world says manifestly that it is not one of peace, of quietness, of content, of simplicity—alas! shall we say of honesty? For it must be confessed civilisation acts upon the mixed character which every man has, and therefore gives progression both to vice and virtue. Man is only made great by trials; difficulties promote energies. It is the law of preparation for this world and for the next. Long, steep, and arduous is the way to excellence. The verse of Hesiod brings to mind a passage of greater authority. The smooth and broad way, and ever-ready way, is not so good.

“Τῆς δ’ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα θεοὶ προπάριοθεν ἔθηκαν. Λθάνατοι, μακρος δὲ καὶ ὄρθιος οἷμος ἐπ’ αὺτὴν, Kαὶ τρηχὺς πρῶτον επην δ’εἰς ἄκρον ἵκηται Ρηἴδίη δ’ἔπειτα πέλει, χαλεπή περ ἐοῦσα.” —HESIOD.

Here we have toil, trouble, and a rough road.

Now for a little entanglement of the subject. Who will sit for this aspirant for all the virtues—for civilisation? I look up to the portrait of the Chinese lady, who first set my thoughts upon this speculation. Surely she never got that placid do-nothing look from any long habit of toil and trouble; she never worked hard. I confess, Eusebius, as I question her, she does look a little more silly than I thought her. She never went the up-hill rough road. How should she? She was never shod for it; nay, were the truth told—for the painter has judiciously kept it out of sight—she had no proper feet to walk withal. They had been pinched to next to nothing. She never could have danced; would have been a sorry figure in a European ball-room; and in the way she must have stood, would have made but (as Goldsmith calls it) “a mutilated curtsey.” It is hard to give up a first idea. I proposed her as an emblem of civilisation—and why not? She does not represent civilisation in its progress—in its work; but in its result—its perfection. For look at her,—she stands not up with a bold impudence, like Luxury in the “Choice of Hercules,” puffed up and enlarged in the fat of pride, and redder and whiter than nature—a painted Jezebel. Quite the reverse. She is most delicately slender; her substance is of the purity of the finest China tea-cup. In fact, she seems to have been set up as the work of a whole nation’s toil,—as a sign, a model, of their civilisation. They who imagined such a creature, and set her upon her legs—yet I can hardly say that, considering the feet—must have made many after the same model, or seen many; and exquisite must have been the manners of such a piece of life-porcelain.

Indeed, Eusebius, we have greatly mistaken these people, the Chinese. I will believe their own account of themselves, and that they were a polished people when the ancient Britons went naked, and painted themselves with woad. Besides, here is another picture at hand, clearly showing them to have been, as probably they are still, a sensible people, for they evidently agree with the wisest man who said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Here they have pictured a school, and the pedagogue is flogging a boy, and he has a very legitimate rod. If this is not a _mark_ of civilisation—for it certainly leaves one, giving, as it were, a bottomry bond of future wisdom—I should like to know what is. Birch-buds are the smart-money of education, and wonderfully improve the memory without touching the head, but reaching the brain by a harmless and distant sympathy. I am sure the Chinese must be a people well worth studying; and, with all our national conceit, we may learn a good deal from them. If we scatter them about with our artillery, and stick them upon bayonets, and despise them because they are innocent, or have been till recently, in the arts of destruction, who are the most savage—the slaughtered or the slaughterers? Are we to call war, civilisation? Perhaps it may be the “rough way” it has to pass. Ask the Czar to answer the question. He will undoubtedly say, that it is cutting the throats of the Turks and filching their property; and he will show you one undoubted proof of the highest civilisation of modern times, consummate hypocrisy—committing murder by wholesale in the name of religion.

Shall I advance a seeming paradox? Civilisation is impeded by knowledge—that is, by the modern demand for it. The memory becomes crammed, till there be no room in the brain for legitimate thought to work in. Hence a bewilderment, a confusion of other men’s ideas, and none of our own; a general perplexity, and little agreement among people in sentiment, for they have no time left to consider upon their differences. The world is overstocked with the materials of knowledge, and yet there is ever a demand for more. The time of man’s best wisdom was when he was not overburthened with books. Happy are scholars that so many of the classics are lost. Were all that have been written extant, the youth that should graduate in honours would be the miracle of a short time, and an idiot the remainder of his life. Then our own literature: it is frightful to see the bulky monthly catalogue of publications. Had I to begin the world, I should throw down the list in despair, and prefer being a literary fool, with a little common sense. Besides, the aspirant in education must learn all modern languages also. What a quantity! I made a note from a paper published, November 1851. Here is a quotation. A letter from Leipsic says—“The catalogue for the book fair of St Michael has been just published. It results from it that during the short space of time which has elapsed since the fair of Easter last, not fewer than three thousand eight hundred and sixty new books have been published in Germany, and that one thousand one hundred and fifty others are in the press. More than one-half of these works are on scientific subjects.” Mercy on the brains of the people!—they will be inevitably addled. What with all this learning and reading, summing and analysing, and making book-shelves of themselves, they are retrograding in natural understanding, which ought to be the strong foundation of civilisation. And there is the necessity growing up of reading all the daily papers beside. Better, Eusebius, that the human plant should grow, like a cucumber, to belly, and run along the common ground, than shoot out such head-seed as is likely to come out of such a hotbed under a surfeit of dry manure. Verily it must shortly come to pass, that Ignoramus will be the wisest if not the knowingest among us. He may have common sense, a few flights of imagination unchoked with the dust of learning, or many wholesome prejudices, a great deal of honest feeling, and with these homespun materials keep his morals and religion pure, and, walking in humbleness, reach unawares the summit of civilisation. If you think him an imaginary being, wed him to the Chinese Purity in the japan frame, and no one will write the epithalamium so happily as my friend Eusebius. I might here have ended my letter, rather expecting to receive a solution to the great question than pretending to offer one. But having written so far, and about to add a concluding sentence, I received a visit from our matter-of-fact friend B., whom people hereabout call the Economist General: he is a professed statist, great in all little things. He is alway at work, volunteering unacceptable advices and schemes to boards of guardians and the Government. I told him I was writing to you, and the subject of my letter,—“Then,” said he, “I can assist you. The census newly come out is the thing. In that you will learn everything. You will, in fact, find civilisation depicted scientifically. I will send it to you.” We conversed an hour; I promised to read his census return in the course of the day. He smiled strangely, but said nothing. I soon understood what the smile meant, when I saw a labouring man take out of a little cart a huge parcel, which upon opening I found to contain the Census in nineteen volumes or books, varying in shapes and sizes, some of which being very bulky, I judged to contain heavy matter. The idea of reading over and digesting the Census in an afternoon appeared now so ridiculous that I could not refrain from laughing myself. Nineteen books to examine in an afternoon! It was evident there would be six months’ toil, and as many hands as Briareus wanted to turn over the leaves; to say nothing of the number of heads to hold the matter. What horsepower engine in the brain to work up a digested process equal to the task! I was, however, being somewhat idle, curious to see what could have made our friend such an enthusiast; I therefore looked into some of the books—became interested—read more and more, though in a desultory manner. It is wonderful to see society so daguerreotyped in all its phases. What could have given rise to so much varied ingenuity?—What schemes, what contrivances for getting at everything!—the commissioners must have been Titans in ingenuity. Was it the necessity of the case that induced so much elaboration? I have read that the cost of the Census exceeds £120,000. That accounts for it, Eusebius; such a sum is not to be clutched without some inventive powers. Our friend thinks the Census will help to solve the question of civilisation; so pray borrow the volumes of an M.P. If you cannot get at the marrow of the thing you want, you will find much for after speculation. There is something frightful, Eusebius, in the idea that no class of men, no individuals, can henceforth escape the eye of this Great Inquisitor-General—a Census commission. There is no conceivable thing belonging to man, woman, or child that may not come under the inspection, and be in the books, of this great Gargantuan Busybody. In truth, he was born a gigantic infant in 1801. Hermes, in the Homeric hymn, leaped out of his cradle upon mischievous errands almost as soon as born: so did our big Busybody. Ere he was six months old he took to knocking at people’s doors, and running[144] away. He soon grew bolder, stood to his knock, and asked if Mr Thompson did not live there. Then he had the trick of getting into houses like the boy Jones, and counted the skillets in the scullery, the pap-dishes in the nursery, turned over the beds in the garrets, and booked men and maids who slept in them before they could put their clothes on. With a thirst for domestic knowledge, he insisted upon knowing who were married and who not. He would burst in upon a family at their prayers, and note what religion they were of. He would know every one’s age, condition, business, and be very particular as to sex female, why they married or why they lived single; he could tell to a day when any would lie in. The most wonderful thing was the paper case he carried with him wherever he went. It would have made Gargantua himself stare with astonishment, for it is said, upon competent authority, to have weighed “nearly forty tons.” This paper case contained particulars noted down of every one’s possible concerns. He had another at home, in which he kept circulars for distribution, demanding further information. It was said to be bigger still;[145] as he grew robust and bold, of course it took more to feed Busybody. It is almost incredible what a number of the people’s loaves he ate up in one year; but that there is the baker’s bill to vouch for it, no one would believe it. The quantity of food required for himself and his numerous retainers has already made him look about with some anxiety to foist upon the country a scheme for sure agricultural statistics, to ascertain the number of loaves to the acre. It cannot be said of him, as of many, that his eye is bigger than his belly, for the former cannot as yet see “bread-stuffs” enough to fill the latter. Besides, he has quite an army to maintain of officials, enumerators, and registrars, who all, after the manner of benchers, must eat their way into the universal knowledge required of them. Such is Busybody. In my afternoon nap, I have dreamed of him, Eusebius, and offer you this description of him—his birth, life, habits, and manners—as by a dreaming intuition I received them. What think you of the monster? As perilous a beast as the Wooden Horse of Troy.

“Inspectura domos, venturaque desuper urbi.” It would not be surprising if Irish mothers, when they find that all their babes are registered, age and sex noted down, were to take into their heads that they are to be fattened; and Swift’s scheme, which a popular author has unwisely characterised as serious cannibalism, is at length to be realised, and thus Bigmouth of the old fair and puppet-show will appear as Busybody-General. Perhaps the “King of the Cannibal Islands,” since we have taught him to read and write, will avail himself of this new registration system; for with him all is alike meat in the market. I have been reading an account of such a people’s doings, and find the only difference between human and other is, that the former is sold as “long pig,” the other short pig.

I mentioned the ingenuity displayed in the Census—turn to the maps and diagrams. You will see a map of England and Wales, shaded so that the depth of colour shall denote the density of the population: there are figures also to tell the number of persons to a square mile, and towns and cities are represented by round dots, larger or smaller, according to the number of inhabitants. It is a very curious and pretty plaything; but of what imaginable use? It is like the shadowing on the maps of the moon. London looks awful—a horrible black pit—and must give children, who will be delighted with the plaything, a notion that our great metropolis must be a sink of iniquity. Cobbett’s notion of the “great wen” was by no means agreeable; to make it such a black pit of destruction is far less flattering. There are diagrams also showing, by the closeness of dots, the density of population at various periods. It was certainly a very ingenious contrivance of the inventor, for the enlargement and continuance of his work and employment; in a matter, too, where, at first view, so little was required to be done. If not more profitable, it at least provides as much amusement as Diogenes afforded when he rolled his tub about, to show that he must be busy. The inventor was, however, wiser than the philosopher; for the philosopher aimed at satire only, the inventor of the maps and diagrams at pay and profit. Everything should nowadays be turned into the channel of education; it might be suggested to the educational purveyors, and to masters and inspectors of schools, who stand a chance of wanting something to teach, to have these maps and diagrams printed cheaply on thick or board paper, that, even in their recreation hours, the scholars may learn something, and the favourite “game of goose,” of ominous name, be profitably superseded. The two diagrams of London, the one for the year 1801, the other 1851, may serve quite as well as the “Chinese puzzle” to exercise growing or dull memories, having a like advantage of not burthening the mind, already too full, with any useful knowledge whatever. For instance, it will be quite sport to learn by heart that, as to density of London in 1801, “on an average, there were nearly 394 square yards of land to every person, 2784 square yards to every inhabited house.” As to proximity in 1801, that, “on an average, the mean distance from house to house (inhabited) was nearly 57 yards; from person to person 21 yards.” That, as to density in 1851, “on an average, there were nearly 160 square yards of land to every person; 1234 square yards to every inhabited house.” As to proximity, that in 1851, “on an average, the mean distance from house to house (inhabited) was nearly 38 yards; from person to person 14 yards.” So that every person is approaching his neighbour in person, but not probably in love or liking, so rapidly, as that he has already seven yards of the area of his liberty taken from him since 1801. It will be comfortably and philosophically answered, that most of those who enjoyed that liberty in 1801, more than half a century ago, cannot complain, for they are now silent, and in less space, that of six feet by four; and that the present generation easily accommodate themselves in less space, having the better liberty of making more noise. These are the trifles, the games, and the plays that amuse children six feet high. Let them by all means roll about their tub in the streets, if they will remain contented with their sport and their wages. They have, however, we may both of us surmise and fear, done far less innocent work. It is not pleasant to know that the pure, chaste secresy of your house has been invaded, taken possession of, and is no longer exclusively yours; that you are in name or in number, as No. 1 or No. 2, put away in a pigeon-hole somewhere in that black pit you have seen in the map, to be drawn out, one of these days, at the will of any impertinent official, and further questioned, perhaps, as the phrase is, _squeezed_, when anything is to be got out of you. You may have a commission sent down to your house, and take possession of it, for some scrutiny or other, while you are taking your morning walk; on your return, you will find two or three commissioners have coolly taken your joint off the spit, and are politely drinking your health out of your choicest sherry; and as an excuse of extraordinary business, question you about the age and property of your great-grandmother deceased. How do you or I know what use will be made of all these registered particulars about us? It would be far pleasanter to be let alone. I have an antipathy to curious questioning people. Dr Franklin, when he came to a strange place, knowing the inquisitive disposition of the people, used to say at once, “My name is Benjamin Franklin; I come from such a place, and am going to such a place; age so and so, and on such business; and now let me have out a horse.” I should for one like to compound with this scrutinising government, on condition of exemption from place in their books, to put out weekly posted to my door the names, ages, and sex of every inmate, with a diary of their employments the six days; requesting not to be called to account for my time on the hallowed seventh. There is no chance of such a composition being accepted on their part; for you will see, Eusebius, there is nothing they are so busy about as to know what religion you are of. There is a separate book for this very purpose; nay, they go farther—they have superseded all known authorities in these matters, and have dictated what shall be your creed, giving you only a latitude of “_Churches_”—such they call every denomination in their Report presented to Parliament, and her Majesty, who as yet happily has recognised but one Church of England, in which matter the Report is undoubtedly at variance with the fundamental law of the Constitution, and passes a kind of insulting suggestion upon her Majesty’s highest prerogative, her very crown and dignity. This is a matter for other consideration; the religious Report must be examined; I only see at present, and note the fact, that the Church of England is put down as but one of the sects.

“Increase and multiply” was at the beginning, and from the beginning to this day is, the Divine command. Some would infer that there must be a blessing attending obedience to it, others would in part abrogate the law, and, with Malthus, admit no crowding at the bountiful table which nature supplies. The presumption fairly is, that as security to life and happiness is the main cause of increase; viewing this world only, such increase must be a great good, and it implies advancement in civilisation, which possibly may not be ill defined as the art of promoting life and happiness. It includes moral advancement. But the beneficence of our Maker allows us to look beyond this world. Hence, the awful thought, and the responsibility incurred by its increase of population, is an increase of immortal souls. There is a depth in this argument beyond my scope. It is a curious fact which this Census shows. In 1801, the population of Great Britain was 10,578,956; in 1851, it had reached 20,959,477. Thus the population has nearly doubled in fifty years. But further, “The population of the United Kingdom, including the army, navy, and merchantseamen, was 21,272,187 in 1821, and about 27,724,849 in 1851; but in the interval 2,685,747 persons emigrated, who, if simply added to the population of the United Kingdom, make the survivors and descendants of the races within the British Isles in 1821, now 30,410,595.”

Perhaps, Eusebius, you never considered that you have only right and title to a certain limited area, to live and breathe in, in this your beloved country. Your area is becoming more circumscribed every day. People are approximating fearfully. You may come to touch very disagreeable people; at present you are only a few yards apart. There are two things, according to this Census, threatening you—“density” and “proximity.” For “density” a French writer proposes “specific population after the analogy of specific gravity,” so that if there be an accelerating ratio, you may be run in upon and crushed by your neighbours, after the annihilating principle of some of our railroads. I remember when a boy hearing an old gentleman make a curious calculation, equalising rights to the air we breathe. He came to the conclusion that a man who smoked tobacco took up more room in the atmosphere than he had any right to. This, now that we are so rapidly approximating, ought, you will think, to come under the consideration of the Legislature. See your danger—“the people of England were on an average one hundred and fifty-three yards asunder in 1801, and one hundred and eight yards asunder in 1851.” Thus the regular goers, the world-walkers, are coming in upon you; but there are some as erratic as comets, whose contiguity you will dread. I say this is your danger, for you do not suppose such infinite pains would have been taken, and such vast expense incurred, merely out of idle curiosity to give you this information. Perhaps it is kindly meant to give you a hint that your room would be preferred to your company. “Tempus abire tibi est.” More than this—not only persons, but houses are encroaching upon each other. “The mean distance apart of their houses was three hundred and sixty-two yards in 1801, and two hundred and fifty-two yards in 1851.” You see, then, you must not only set yourself in order to depart, but you must “set your house in order” also. It is really astonishing that the Census Commission should have taken such a world of trouble in making calculations which, at first sight, look so puerile; we must only conclude, that somehow or other the labour is as much worth the hire, as the labourer is worthy _his_ hire.

I dare to say, among your ignorances, you are ignorant of this, that the British Isles are at least five hundred in number. “Five hundred islands and rocks have been numbered, but inhabitants were only found and distinguished on the morning of March 31, 1851, in _one hundred and seventy-five_ islands, or groups of islands.” I cannot very well tell what is meant by “_distinguished_,” but you will perceive that there is a chance, if you fear the “crushing density and proximity” of escape to one of these islands, as yet uninhabited, where you may exist without contact or contagion, as a very “_distinguished_” individual. You may be another Alexander Selkirk, and “monarch of all you survey,” and have the honour of a distinction, in the next census, now enjoyed by a lone lady. You will be enumerated as, and as solely taking care of, number one. There are British isles that have each but two inhabitants. “Little Papa” has but one—a woman; and “Inchcolm one solitary man.” What think you of this “last man” and this “last woman,” each upon his or her “_ultima Thule_?” The motherless man-hating woman, in contempt of the parental name, alone treading under foot “Little Papa.” The “solitary man,” if, as is likely he be, brutish, may live out of the fear of a recent Act of Parliament. For if he disdains the marital luxury, he cannot be punished for beating his wife.

The writer of these statistics, aware that there is a good deal of dry matter, prudently sprinkles it with a little saltwater poetry. Thus, as a kind of preface to these British islands, he says, “The Scandinavian race survives in its descendants round the coasts of the British Isles, and the soul of the old Viking still burns in the seamen of the British fleet, in the Deal boatmen, in the fishermen of the Orkneys, and in that adventurous, bold, direct, skilful, mercantile class, that has encircled the world by its peaceful conquests. What the Greeks were in the Mediterranean Sea, the Scandinavians have been in the Atlantic Ocean. A population of a race on the islands and the island coasts, impregnated with the sea, in fixing its territorial boundaries would exhibit but little sympathy with the remonstrating Roman poet, in his Sabine farm over the Mediterranean:

‘Nequidquam Deus abscidit Prudens _occano dissociabili_ Feras, si tamen impiæ Non tangenda rates trausiliunt vada.’”

A writer or compiler of statistics should ride his own hobby. Pegasus is hard-mouthed to his hand; if he attempts the use of the curb, he is thrown, and thus is sure to be run away with. So here he has got quite beyond the ground of matter-of-fact. By the Vikings’ soul in the British seamen—the burning soul too—he declares himself of the Pythagorean philosophy, quite gratuitously; and in the following sentence carries his transmigration notions to a strange but practical conclusion, for he tells us of a race “_impregnated with the sea_,” imaging sailors’ mothers and wives as mermaids—that is, previous to the marine and marital alliances; by which unaccountable flight of poetic diction, I presume, he means only that the sea was rather a rough nursing-mother: and how could he imagine that such an untutored race ever read, or could read, a syllable of what Horace wrote? Doubtless, he must have been weary, counting up these five hundred mostly barren islands, and, coming in the list to “_Rum_,” it must have made for him a comfortable suggestion; and in consequence, a pretty stiff tumbler set all his ideas at once afloat, and poetically, “half seas over” among the islands, steering, however, steadily, as he was bound towards Mull Port, and the more pleasant hospitality of its 7485 inhabitants. Having descended from this marine Pegasus, the author proceeds in his statistics.

The number of inhabited houses in Great Britain in 1801 amounted to 1,870,476; in 1851, to 3,648,347: these contained 4,312,388 families—persons, 20,816,351. Thus it is seen that the number of houses since 1801 is nearly doubled. How commonly we boast, Eusebius, of things that have passed away! You hear it now often said that an Englishman’s house is his castle, the garrison of which has been hitherto supposed to be known only to himself. There has been an idea that not only the master, but all down to the very scullion, are ready to stand with spits and skillets to keep out unwelcome invaders; whereas the truth is, as shown in this Census, that the castle has its government inspector, who notes down and registers the numbers, ages, names, sexes, and occupations of every individual the said castle contains. Houses are a very nice tangible property for the convenience of government taxation; by judicious scrutiny, of which the Census Commission provides ample means, it will be easily ascertained what each family has to live upon; or, what is quite the same thing for the getting the taxation, what on “an average” the Commissioners may think the said family ought to have to live upon; thus the income-tax is facilitated in computation and collection. These are surely encroachments, that, by little and little, are domineering over the subjects’ liberty. There are other Acts of Parliament also which affect this liberty in the “castle;” some general, some local. In few places can a man make alterations in his building, inside or out, without an application for consent, and of course a fee to some commissioner or other. If he succeeds, there is a further penalty upon his improvements, though they may have been required for the very health of his family. He has, through this Census scrutiny, to pay a tax upon his improvements, nor is he allowed any deduction for repairs. This Englishman’s castle, then, you see, is as much besieged as Bomarsund! At first it was pretty well thrown out of its own windows by the window-tax, and is always at the mercy of commissions, whether it shall or shall not be turned out of doors. Many a one is there that has a ten-pound battery playing upon it all the year round. If, weary of watching your besiegers, you turn yourself out of house, and live a rambling, roving life how you can, you will not so easily escape; you will have an inspector after you with note-book and ink-horn, and you will be booked and pigeon-holed for further use when wanted. “Finally, there is the population sleeping in barns, in tents, and in the open air, comprising, with some honest, some unfortunate people out of employment, or temporarily employed, gypsies, beggars, strollers, vagabonds, vagrants, outcasts, criminals. The enumeration of the houseless population, unsettled in families, is necessarily imperfect, and the actual number must exceed the 18,249 returned; namely, 9972 in barns, and 8277 in the open air.” The poor strollers! why should they be stigmatised and classed with vagabonds, vagrants, outcasts, and criminals? are they not following their lawful vocation, and doing something, as it is hoped they are, towards civilising the people through legitimate amusement? Is the compiler of these statistics a descendant of the old Puritans, and still retaining an unwarrantable prejudice? It were better he had the charity of the chimney-sweeper boy, who remonstrated with a brother sweep, who pointed his finger at Garrick in the streets, and said, “There be one of the player-folk.” “Don’t say so,” said the discreet one, “for thee dostn’t know what thee and I may come to.” But I know, as you rather patronise gypsies, you will be pleased to hear that one tribe of them baffled the officials. “It is mentioned in one instance that a tribe of gypsies struck their tents, and passed into another parish in order to escape enumeration.”

The great king whom we read of in history, who, in the excess of his felicity, thought it needful to have a flapper appointed to remind him every day that he was mortal, though he was made the example of many a theme in our school days, I look upon now as a very silly fellow. I have often heard you express your dislike of any impertinent _memento moris_—you have even thought it irreligious, and unthankful for present good; and tending to chill the life-blood, the little that is left in the old, and to throw a wet blanket over the cheerfulness of the young, out of which cheerfulness elastic manhood is to spring, and to take upon itself to do the manly responsible duties of life vigorously. I repeat that you have always maintained, that to thrust a _memento mori_ in every man’s face, or to carve it upon his walking-stick, is irreligious, because it is essential unthankfulness.

It is not pleasant, certainly, to have one’s days numbered by other people, and sent to you in circulars. I knew one of these life-calculators; a clergyman called to condole with him on the recent death of his wife. All he could get from him was partly a submission to a necessity, and partly a congratulation that death had not taken him. “Yes, sir,” said he, “if A does not die, in all probability B will; and if neither A nor B die, C must.” You will be indignant, but your philosophy will have the pleasure of its indignation, if I pointed out to your notice Busybody’s table of mortality. When last he knocked at your door, and booked your age, did his eyebrows arch with surprise? Eusebius, that look meant to tell you that you had no right whatever at that moment to be alive. He longed to filch your name out of his pigeon-hole of life. You are a hale man, and will, I hope, doing so much good as you do, outlive a couple of censuses yet. Have your eye upon Busybody when he next appears; not like Death, with one of his warnings, but ready to receive a certificate of burial. There is a table showing how very few who were alive in 1801 are now living, and so on, at every succeeding census. “By the English Life Table it is shown that the half of a generation of men of all ages passes away _in thirty years_, and that more than three in every four of their number die in half a century.” But I pass by this unwelcome subject—nor will I be the one to say to you or to any man, “Proximus ardet, Ucalegon.” Let Ucalegon’s house escape if it can.

It is more agreeable to contemplate births than deaths. There is something very curious in that hidden law which evidently regulates the proportion of the sexes to each other. It has been commonly thought that the males have exceeded the females, in order to make allowance for the greater waste of life to which the males are subject by wars and the elements. But the facts show the contrary. “The number of the male population of Great Britain was 10,386,048, of the female population 10,735,919; the females exceeded the males by 349,871; and the males at home were 10,223,558; consequently the females exceeded by 512,361 the males _in_ Great Britain. To every 100,000 females the males were 96,741, including 1538 males abroad, the exclusion of whom leaves 95,203 males at home. The excess of females over males was nearly the same proportionally in 1801 and 1851. Thus, in 1801, to every 100,000 males there were 103,353 females; in 1851, the females were 103,369 to the same number of males. The proportion in both periods was nearly 30 males to 31 females.” It may be inferred from this that there is rather a greater waste of female life than of male. It would be worth while to ascertain how long this excess has been found to have taken place; I am inclined to suspect that the unhealthy employments of young women, to so large an extent, may have been the cause; for it seems to be the law of nature to make a supply for the greater waste. Humanity requires a strict scrutiny into the healthy or deleterious employments of young women, especially in our manufacturing districts, to account for this excessive supply, that as far as is possible some remedial measures may be adopted. That all is regulated by a law of Providence, there can be no doubt in any mind. My present knowledge of the Census is entirely confined to the Report No. 1 of 1851. I shall look to the second Part for an elucidation of this problem.

It is surprising, however, on the whole, to see how evenly the sexes are balanced; it would be a speculation not uninteresting to see what causes may have induced occasional variations. Thus speaks the Report:

“The sexes have apparently increased at different rates in certain decennaries, but the average annual rates of increase through the whole period have been so nearly the same (males 1.328, females 1.329 per cent) as to cause a slight difference only in the third decimal place, and have differed little from 1⅓ annually. The decennial rates of increase were, males 14.108, females 14.111.” The “law of population,” as it relates to proportion of sexes, is a mystery. No human polity can provide for that. It is plain to see, however, that there is a wise, benevolent, superintending power which makes and maintains the law in a just equilibrium. Whether people shall marry or no may depend on human laws and civil institutions; whether due encouragement be given, or the reverse.

We learn from Herodotus that among the Sauromatæ, a people in the northern parts of Europe and Asia, the women dressed in the habits of men, and, like them, engaged in battle; that none were allowed to marry till she shall first have killed her man. Hence it happened, we are further told, that many died old maids, never having been able to fulfil the conditions. How any population could be kept up under the existence of such a law, no one now can question the historian. I suppose, from the necessity of the case, that a reform was demanded, and more peaceful marriages were the first-fruits of a free trade. It must have been an adventurous thing for a man to marry a woman who had once killed her man to obtain one husband; he might have lived in continual fear that she might kill a second man to have another husband.

It appears that marriage, though it is nominally free, is under restriction; were it otherwise, the increase of population would be far greater. “In ordinary times a large proportion of the marriageable women of every country are unmarried.” The writer might have spared his ink; but he adds: “And the most direct action on the population is produced by their entering the marriage state.” As one example may serve a general purpose, the Census gives that of the south-eastern division, comprising Surrey, Kent, Sussex, Hants, and Berks, in which “the number of women of the age of 20, and under 45, amounted at the last Census to 290,209, of whom 169,806 were wives, and 120,403 were spinsters or widows. 49,997 births were registered in the same counties during the year 1850, or 10 children were born in 1850 to every 58 women living in 1851.” It is to be presumed that among matrimonial chances every lot is a prize. The difficulty of a choice, where multitudes assemble, maintains a law of hesitation—of indecision—by which it happens that celibacy becomes wise, and is fond of repeating the philosopher’s advice as to the time to marry: if young, not yet; if middle-aged, wait; if old, never. Let us see how the reverse operates where the choice is very limited. St Kilda, in the parish of Harris, is 70 miles away from the mainland in the Western Hebrides; the population is 110—48 males, 62 females; 32 families in 32 houses. “There are 19 married couples on the island, 2 widowers, 8 widows. _Five unmarried men, 5 unmarried women of the age of 20, and under 46._” One would imagine these had only to meet and to marry. Five is no great choice; the greater haste, you would suppose, to take a partner. Is the solution to be found in this extraordinary fact, that there is no clergyman to unite the couples resident on the island? The five couples must wait; and as the clergyman on the mainland may hesitate to go 140 miles to marry one couple, he is probably waiting for all five to come to a decision. It must have been some such unfortunate place as St Kilda which supplied the wit to the epigrammatist upon the question of marriages ceasing elsewhere, the priest asserting that women are not to be found there; the reply being—

“Women there are, but I’m afraid They cannot find a priest.”

“On St Kilda,” says the Census, “there is a manse and a church, but no medical man—no clergyman resident on the island.”

Will the world be better, Eusebius, for all these statistics; will civilisation be one jot advanced, by _registering_ our tailors as well as their paletots?—by knowing how many tinkers there are in the world to mend our kettles? They will, be sure of it, trudge about just the same, and do their work as badly or as well as before. All trades will be governed by their own instincts, without the least difference; unless, indeed, statistics take a more useful turn, and fix their stigma upon the adulterators of goods. We may have reason to say something in favour of the ScrutinizerGeneral, when he can tell us where the wines called port are manufactured that never came from Portugal, and who make them; who adulterates our drugs, so that people are dying for lack of the genuine; who, in fact, poison all we eat and drink, and put devils’-dust on our backs for woollen cloth. It is very little to the purpose to have the number of thieves and rascals that infest the world, if the Augean stable of crime is left uncleansed. If dishonesty should ever be driven out of common trades, which it has so notoriously infected, a great thing would be done; and we might bear with a grateful quietude more numbering and registering of us and all our concerns than we quite like; although it surely is not necessary for this to carry on such espionage as this Census contains. Perhaps even its absurdity is dangerous, for it induces people to fix their minds upon that, not upon its ulterior purposes. While men are laughing at things, wilily ridiculous in themselves, they know not what mischief is secretly brewing. I maintain that it is a great offence in any way to touch the sanctity of the hearth—that what economists and statistic inventors may please to call public liberty, should be allowed to destroy home liberty. It is something monstrous that every one should be obliged to give an account of every inmate in his house, their ages, conditions, and their relationship. It is better to let some of the peccadilloes of life escape notice, than register them and the house. If Miss or Mrs Debora Wilkins shall receive under her hospitality a big nephew, it is very hard upon her to be obliged to certify the exact relationship, or induce her into the great error of writing down a falsehood. Men may be a little more careless in such matters, but feminine nicety is touched to the quick. I remember once an Irishman walking into a drawing-room, and introducing to the lady of the house a tall youth, as, “Give me leave to introduce my nephew;” then putting his hand aside of his mouth, he added, in a whisper which may be truly termed Irish, for it was quite as loud as the first introduction, “he’s my son.” Could you, having any bowels of compassion, extort a like confession from such an unprotected female as Miss Debora? A registration commission might, if encouraged, hereafter ransack her unfortunate boxes to find baby-linen. Is there to be nothing but one rigid rule—no charity shown to sex and age—but the unsparing discovery of both on that fatal 30th of March? Must no female, then, escape to her lover’s arms in male attire—no “lubberly boy” pass for a sweet Anne Page, that sweet Anne Page fall not to the lot of a fool? Must foibles, frailties, and follies be all registered in damnatory schedules? Surely there might be a little decent connivance, such as would spare the two village ladies, who, being born in the same _anno Domini_, annually visited each other to determine what should be their ages for the ensuing year. Their only comfort will be in bribery and corruption, which they will be thankful is not yet put down, and a fee will spare what uncharitable census would expose. There may be something in attacking crimes and discovering frauds which touch the whole community. These are not much harboured in homes, but in public-houses, and in shops, which are not homes, but as having a public character, and giving public invitation to all to enter them, ought to come under some kind of surveillance; but when the citizen shuts his street-door, let none force an entrance. Let no Asmodeus take off his roof, and publish the within little histories, nor make gimlet-holes in walls and ceilings. Such doings are but, as at present, a slight exaggeration or caricature of a census. Let there be a police, and a good one; even with much secret scrutiny allowed them,—it is for the public safety; but there let it end in its admitted authority. Make not a police of a census commission, nor let the one interfere with or usurp the office of the other. Let a census be content to number the people—a police take crime under its cognisance. The undying, ever-seeing, and acting arrangement of a police is one of the most curious phenomena of society. For revolutions that appear to overturn everything, scarcely touch a well-ordered police; the excellence of which is, that it lives and moves unseen, unfelt, by the good—that it is a protector.

I remember years ago reading an anecdote showing the perfection of the old Parisian police. A gentleman had sojourned in Paris a week or two, when one day he was requested to attend at the police-office. He was surprised when told how he had occupied himself since he had been in Paris—what houses he had frequented, what friends visited, what business he had transacted. He was finally asked the home-question, “Are you a man of courage—can you rely upon yourself?” He thought he might. Then he was told that there was a plot to murder him in his bed that night—that his own servant was in conspiracy with others for that purpose. He was desired to go to bed as usual, and, if he did not sleep, to appear to sleep, and to fear nothing. In the night he heard his room-door open, a person or persons enter—he knew steps were softly approaching his bed—he fancied the arm uplifted to murder him. His reliance and his courage failed him not. Under his bed, and elsewhere in his room, soldiers had been secreted. To make the story short, his servant and the accomplices were taken. The census which a police quietly makes has an object of general safety. It has its one pursuit. It has its particular game, and we may well give it its license. By it we sleep safely in our beds. It does its complicated but defined work silently; whereas the other census is perpetually knocking at every man’s door, to ask impertinent questions. It is a perpetual warning to “beware the Ides of March;” for then it will come and toss the clothes off your bed at earliest dawn, lest you should rise and escape; and you must give an account of all the beds, and all who slept in them. And what is all this disturbance for? For no earthly good that any of the persecuted can yet see, but all mistrust the end. Must every one of us have a ticket and number on his back? It is the same thing, if he and his concerns, and all the relations of his life, are down in Busybody’s book. There he sits in his Centralisation Office, with his millions of electric wires passing underground, and coming up unseen in every man’s house. He means to have his hook in every man’s nose, nay, every man’s, woman’s, and child’s, and to draw them in when he wills, as a big spider does his flies, and perhaps to leave them sucked as dry, suspended in his million-threaded web. And has he not as many eyes as that ugly creature, and as many ways of spreading out his ubiquitous legs—backward, forward, or circular? Oh, this Busybody!—he means to have a line in every one’s mouth, and to draw all after him as Gulliver did the diminutive fleet. But I say, Eusebius, that, Liliputians as we are in his eyes, it is hard if we cannot combine, get our multitudinous toils round his legs, and with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, throw him on his back, tie him down hands and feet, search his pockets for his hooks, and then shoot our sharpest arrows into the body of this Quintus Flestrin. We will not be any more gulled by this huge Gulliver. He is the Great Humbug and Deceiver, cajoling silly ones into a belief in the marvel of his arithmetic; that all the commonest things of life must be done by his mystical numbers, or will be done ill; that they must count and think of how many joints, bones, muscles, and sinews they have in their toes, before venturing their feet a single step.

What is become of civilisation all this while, Eusebius? This Census, which was to tell so much, has not thrown light upon the question. Yet, perhaps, after all, it is a more simple one than you or I thought it to be. I go back to the placidity of the Chinese lady in the picture. I am now gazing on her expressive trustfulness—upon a complexion that, if there be many such, justifies the title of “Celestial Empire.” She, the feminine representative of a nation, the prized pearl of the Romance of the Porcelain Empire, the very “Gentilezza,” the embodied purity of a people’s best thoughts, the endowed growth of a perfection above nature, for so much worship as humanity may, for its improvement in civilisation, be allowed to set up in the garden of imaginary virtues, the very Goshen where grow plants and flowers, and sweet waters glide unknown to working nature, and all courting the enchanting and enchanted beauty.

“L’acqua la terra in suo favor s’inchina.” Not to be tedious with you in this fancied passion, Eusebius, I come to the point I aim at. She is the emblem of civilisation, and that is feminine influence. Its ideal has beautified that porcelain world, as it will ever beautify every other where it is felt and maintained.

Yes, Eusebius, civilisation, like common sense, aptly called mother-wit, comes from the mother. He who, as child and boy, loved and reverenced for all her purity, truth, and goodness, a mother, when he becomes man will ever do his part in civilising the world. From the first romance of mother’s love groweth every other romance; for romance is a noble and delicate sentiment. To propagate this is to propagate civilisation. But if any lack this reverence, from whatever cause, and would palm upon society, as better than its romance, an idle knowledge, a low spirit of calculation, an accumulation of mere facts and figures, trust him not with the secrets of your breast; all his doings tend to selfishness and rebarbarism. A mother to him is but as poor old Mrs Bounderby ignored. For my own part, Eusebius, when I see such glib statistical calculators boasting of their practical knowledge, I bethink me of the learned dog in the show, who with perseverance has acquired the trick of putting his paw upon letters and numbers, and of arithmetising required ages. Take heed to your pocket on such occasions; for though you have paid your admission-ticket, there remains the last acquirement, the last main trick to be exhibited, the going round the company with the hat in his mouth.

A RUSSIAN REMINISCENCE.

Upon one of the coldest days of February 1853, I left Paris by the Orleans Railway. The weather was extremely severe, the frozen snow lay thick in the streets, the asphalt of the boulevards was slippery as glass, sledges scoured the Champs Elysées and Bois de Boulogne. An icy wind whistled round the train as we quitted the shelter of the station, and I regretted, as I buttoned myself to the chin, and shrank into my corner, that the carriage was not full, instead of having but one occupant besides myself.

Opposite to me sat a hale man of about sixty-five, with a quick bright eye, an intelligent, good-humoured countenance—somewhat weather-beaten—and the red rosette of the Legion of Honour in his button-hole. During the first half-hour he pored over a letter, whose contents, judging from the animated expression of his physiognomy, interested him strongly. He seemed scarcely aware of my presence. At last he put up the letter, and then for the first time looked me in the face. I had been but a few days out of a sick-bed, and was sensitive to the cold, and doubtless my appearance was chilly and woebegone enough, for I detected a slight approach to a smile at the corners of the stranger’s mouth. To one or two commonplace remarks he replied courteously but laconically, like a man who is neither unsociable nor averse to conversation, but who prefers his own thoughts to that bald talk with which travellers sometimes weary each other rather than sit silent. So our dialogue soon dropped. The cold increased, my feet were benumbed, and I stamped them on the floor of the carriage to revive the circulation. My companion observed my proceedings with a comical look, as if he thought me a very tender traveller.

“This carriage must be badly closed,” I remarked. “It is bitter cold to the feet.”

“For that discomfort I have little pity,” replied the Frenchman. “A ride on the railway is soon over, and a good fire or a brisk walk is a quick and easy remedy. Mine is a different case. For forty years I have never known warm feet.”

“For forty years?” I repeated, thinking I had misunderstood him.

“Yes, sir, forty years; since the winter of 1812—the winter of the Russian campaign.”

“You were in that terrible campaign?” I inquired, in a tone of interest and curiosity. My companion, previously taciturn, suddenly became communicative.

“All through it, sir,” he replied; “from the Niemen to the Kremlin, and back again. It was my first campaign, and was near being my last. I was in others afterwards; in Germany in 1813, when the combined Germans and Russians drove us before them, for want of the brave fellows we had left in Muscovy’s snows; in France in 1814, when the Emperor made his gallant struggle against overwhelming forces; and at the closing scene in Flanders: but not all those three campaigns put together, nor, as I believe, all that this century has witnessed, can match the horrors of that dreadful winter in Russia.”

He paused, and, leaning back in his corner, seemed to revolve in his mind events of powerful interest long gone by. I waited a while, in hopes he would resume the subject. As he did not do so, I asked him to what arm he belonged when in Russia.

“I was assistant-surgeon in a regiment of hussars,” he answered, “and in my medical capacity I had abundant opportunity to make acquaintance with the horrors of war. On the 7th of September, for instance, at the Moskwa—Heavens! what a shambles that was! Ah, it was fine to see such valour on both sides—for the Russians fought well—gallantly, sir, or where would have been the glory of beating them? But Ney! Ney! Oh! he was splendid that day! His whole countenance gleamed, as he again and again led the bloody charge, exposing himself as freely as any corporal in the ranks. And Eugene, the Viceroy, with what vigour he hurled his masses against that terrible redoubt! When at last it was his, what a sight was there! The ground was not strewn with dead; it was heaped, piled with them. They had been shot down by whole ranks, and there they lay, prostrate, in line as they had stood.”

The surgeon paused. I thought of Byron’s beautiful lines, beginning, “Even as they fell, in files they lay;” but I said nothing, for I saw that my companion was now fairly started, and needed no spurring.

“_Monsieur_,” he presently resumed, “all those things have been brought strongly to my mind by the letter you saw me just now reading. It is from an old friend, a captain in 1812, a general now, who went through the campaign, and whom I was so fortunate as to save from a grave in those infernal plains where most of our poor comrades perished. I will tell you how it happened. We were talking of the battle of Borodino. Seventy thousand men, it is said, were killed and wounded in that murderous fight. We surgeons, as you may well think, had our hands full, and still could not suffice for a tithe of the sufferers. It was a rough breaking-in for a young hand, as I then was. Such frightful wounds as were there, of every kind and description—from shot, shell, and bullet, pike and sabre. Well, sir, all the misery and suffering I then saw, all that vast amount of human agony and bloodshed, whose steam, ascending to Heaven, might well have brought down God’s malediction on His creatures, who could thus destroy and deface each other, was nothing compared with the horrible misery we witnessed on our retreat. I have read everything that has appeared in France concerning that campaign—Ségur, Labaume, and other writers. Their narratives are shocking enough, but nothing to the reality. They would have sickened their readers had they told all they saw. If anybody, who went through the campaign, could remember and set down all he witnessed, he would make the most heart-rending book that ever yet was printed, and would be accused of gross exaggeration. Exaggeration, indeed! there was no need to heighten the horrors of the winter of 1812. All that frost and famine, lead and steel, could inflict, was then endured; all the crimes that reckless despair and ruthless cruelty could prompt were then perpetrated.”

“And how,” I asked, “did you escape, when so many, doubtless as strong and courageous, and more inured to hardship, miserably perished?”

“Under Providence, I owed my preservation to the trustiest and most faithful servant ever master had. Paul had been several years in the hussars—was an old soldier, in fact, although still a young man; and at a time when all discipline and subordination were at an end, when soldiers heeded not their officers, officers avoided their generals, and servants and masters were all alike and upon a level, Paul proved true as steel. As if cold and the Cossacks were not enough, hunger was added to our sufferings: there was no longer a commissariat or distribution of rations;—rations, forsooth!—dead horse was a luxury I have seen men fight for till death, lean meat though it was, for the poor brutes were as starved as their riders. What little there was to eat in the villages we passed through fell to the share of the first comers. Empty larders—often smoking ruins—were all that remained for those who came behind. Well, sir, when things were at the worst, and provender at the scarcest, Paul always had something for me in his haversack. One day it would be a bit of bread, on the morrow a handful of grain or some edible roots, now and then a slice of horse-beef—and how delicious that seemed, grilled over our smoky scanty fires! There was never enough to satisfy my hunger, but there was always a _something_—enough to keep body and soul together. Paul, as I afterwards discovered, husbanded his stores, for he well knew that if he gave me all at once I should leave nothing, and then I must have fasted for days, and perhaps have fallen from my horse for weakness. But think of the courage and affection of the poor fellow, himself half-starved, to carry food about him day after day, and refrain from devouring the share secretly set aside for me! There were not many men in the army, even of general’s rank, capable of such devotion to the dearest friend they had, for extreme misery had induced a ferocious selfishness, which made us more like hyenas than Christians.”

“I should think the cold must have been even worse to endure than hunger,” said I, screwing up my chilly extremities, which the interest of the doctor’s conversation had almost made me forget.

“It was, sir, harder and more fatal—at least a greater number died of it; although, to say the truth, frost and famine there worked hand in hand, and with such unity of action, that it was often hard to say which was the cause of death. But it was a shocking sight, of a morning, to see the poor fellows lying dead round the bivouac fires. Unable to resist fatigue and the drowsy influence of the cold, they yielded to slumber, and passed from sleep into death. For, there, sleep _was_ death.”

“But how then,” I asked, “did any ever escape from Russia, for all must have slept at times?”

“I do not believe that any who escaped _did_ sleep, at least not of a night, at the bivouac. We used to rouse each other continually, to prevent our giving way, and then get up and walk as briskly as we could, to quicken the sluggish circulation. We slept upon the march, in our saddles, and, strange as it may seem to you, even those on foot slept when marching. They marched in groups or clusters, and those in the centre slept, propped and supported by their companions, and moving their legs mechanically. I do not say that it was a sound, deep sleep, but rather a sort of feverish dozing. Such as it was, however, it was better than nothing, and assuredly saved some who would otherwise have sunk. Others, who would have given way to weariness upon the long monotonous march, were kept from utter despair and self-abandonment only by the repeated harassing attacks of the Cossacks. The excitement of the skirmish warmed their blood, and gave them, as it seemed, fresh hold upon life. In one of those skirmishes, or rather in a sharp combat, a dear friend of mine, a captain in the same regiment, had his left arm carried off by a cannon-shot. After the affair was over, I came suddenly upon him, where he lay moaning by the roadside, his face ashy pale, his arm still hanging by the sinews. His horse had either galloped away, or been taken by the fugitives.

“‘_Ah, mon ami!_’ he cried, when he saw me, ‘all is over—I can go no further. I shall never see France again!’

“I saw that, like the majority of those who received severe wounds in that retreat, his moral courage was subdued, and had given way to despair. I was terribly shocked, for I felt how slight was his chance of escape. I need hardly tell you there was very little dressing of wounds during that latter part of the retreat; most of the surgeons were dead, the hospital-waggons with medicine and instruments had been left on the road; transport for the sick was out of the question. I assumed as cheerful a countenance as I could.

“‘Why, Préville,’ I cried, ‘this will not do; we must get you along somehow. Come! courage, my friend! You _shall_ see France again, in spite of all.’

“‘Ah! doctor,’ replied he, in piteous tones, ‘it is no use. Here I shall die. All you can do for me is to blow my brains out, and save me from the Cossack lances.’

“By this time I had dismounted and was at his side. The intense cold had stopped the bleeding of his wound. I saw that there was no lack of vitality in him, and that, but for this mishap, few would have got out of the campaign in better plight. Even now, his despondency was perhaps his greatest danger. I reminded him of his wife and child (he had been married little more than a year, and news of the birth of a daughter had reached him on our forward march), of his happy home, his old mother—of all the ties, in short, that bound him to life. Whilst speaking, I severed the sinews that still retained his shattered arm, and bound it up as best I might. He still despaired and moaned, but suffered me to do as I would. He was like an infant in my hands—that man who, in the hour of battle, was a very lion for courage. But long suffering and the sudden shock—occurring, too, when we seemed on the verge of safety—had overcome his fortitude. With Paul’s help I got him upon my horse. The poor brute was in no case to carry double, so I walked and led it, although at that time I could hardly hobble.

“‘It is all useless, my dear doctor,’ Préville said; ‘this is my last day; I feel that. Far better shoot me, or leave me by the roadside, than risk your life for my sake.’

“I took no heed, but tried to cheer him. Those unclean beasts, the Cossacks, were hovering around us as usual, and at times the bullets fell pretty thick. Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since I set Préville on my horse, when a shot struck his right eye—not entering the head, but glancing across the globe, and completely destroying the sight. Well, sir, then there occurred a physiological phenomenon which I have never been able satisfactorily to account for. This man, whom the loss of an arm had reduced to despair, seemed to derive fresh courage from the loss of an eye. At any rate, from that moment he complained no more of his fate, resumed his usual manly tone, and bore up like a hero. Paul was lucky enough to catch a riderless horse, which I mounted. The worst was over, and we soon got a respite. Without troubling you with details, and incredible though it may seem to you, my poor friend escaped with life, although with a limb and an eye the less.”

“There must have been many extraordinary escapes from that campaign,” I remarked.

“Innumerable. There was a sergeant of dragoons, a former comrade of my servant’s, who, for many days, marched beside me and Paul. He received a severe wound. There were some vehicles still with us at that time, and we got him a place in one of them, and made him as comfortable as we could. The following night we stopped at a town. In the morning, as we were about to march, the Cossacks came down. There was great confusion; several baggage-carts were captured in the street, and some of the wounded were abandoned in the houses where they had passed the night. Amongst these was Sergeant Fritz. Not many houses in the town were still in good condition—most of them had been burned and knocked to pieces by the soldiers. The house in which Fritz lay had still its doors and windows, and was one of the most comfortable in the place, on which account it had been converted into a temporary hospital. Well, the Russians came in, brought their wounded, and turned out our poor fellows to make room for them. Some, who could not move quickly enough, were brutally pitched through a low window into a garden behind the house, there to perish miserably. Fritz was one of these. Only just able to crawl, he made his way round the garden, seeking egress. He reached a gate communicating with another garden. It was locked, and pain and weakness forbade his climbing over. He sat close to the gate, propped against it, and looking wistfully through the bars at the windows of a house, and at the cheerful glow of a fire, when he was perceived by a young girl. She came out and opened the gate, and helped him into the house. Her father was a German clockmaker, long settled in Russia, and Fritz, a Swiss, spoke German well. The kind people put him to bed, hid his uniform, and tended him like a son. When, in the following spring, his health was restored, and he would have left them, the German proposed to him to remain and assist him in his trade. He accepted the offer, married the German’s daughter, and remained in Russia until his father-in-law’s death, when he was taken with a longing to revisit his native mountains, and returned to Switzerland with his wife and family. I met him since at Paris, and he told me his story. But although his escape was narrow, and romantic enough, there must have been others much more remarkable. Most of the prisoners made by the Russians, and who survived severe cold and harsh treatment, were sent to Moscow, to labour at rebuilding the city. When the fine season came, some of them managed to escape, and to make their way, in various disguises, and through countless adventures, back to their own country.”

I have set down but the most striking portions of our conversation—or rather, of the doctor’s narrative, since I did little but listen; and occasionally, by a question or remark, direct his communicativeness into the channel I wished it to take. We were now near Orleans.

“The letter I was reading when we started,” said my companion, “and which has brought back to my memory all that I have told you—at risk, perhaps, of wearying you,” he added with a slight bow and smile, “and a host of other circumstances, to me of thrilling and everlasting interest, is from General Préville, who lives in the south of France, but has come unexpectedly to Orleans to pass a month with me. That is his way. He lives happily with a married daughter; but now and then the desire to see an old comrade, and to fight old battles over again, comes so strongly upon him, that he has his valise packed at an hour’s notice, and takes me by surprise. He knows well that ‘The General’s Room’ and an affectionate reception always await him. I received his letter—full of references to old times—yesterday evening, and am now hurrying back to Orleans to see him. He may very likely be waiting for me at the station; and you will see that, for a man who gave himself up for dead forty years ago in the snows of Russia, and begged, as a favour, a bullet through his brain, he looks tolerably hearty and satisfied to live.”

“There is one thing, _Monsieur le Docteur_,” I said, “which you have not yet explained to me, and which I do not understand. Did you mean literally what you said, that since the Russian campaign you have never had your feet warm?”

“Literally and truly, sir. When we got to Orcha, where Jomini was in command, and where the heroic Ney, who had been separated from the army, rejoined us with the skeleton of his corps—having cut his way, by sheer valour and soldiership, through clouds of Platoff’s Cossacks—we took a day’s rest. It was the 20th of November, the last day of anything approaching to comfort which we were to enjoy before crossing the Russian frontier. True, we made one more halt, at Molodetschino, whence Napoleon dated his bulletin of our terrible disasters, but then only a portion of us could find lodging; we were sick, half-frozen, and numbers died in the streets. At Orcha we found shelter and tranquillity; the governor had provided provisions against our passage, the enemy left us quiet, and we enjoyed a day of complete repose. My baggage had long since been lost, and my only pair of boots were torn to shreds. I had been riding with fragments of a soldier’s jacket tied round my feet, which I usually kept out of the stirrups, the contact of the iron increasing the cold. At Orcha, the invaluable Paul brought me a Jew (the Jews were our chief purveyors on that retreat) with boots for sale. I selected a pair and threw away my old ones, which for many days I had not taken off. My feet were already in a bad state, sore and livid. I bathed them, put on fresh stockings and my new boots, and contrived with a pair of old trousers, a sort of leggings or overalls, closed at the bottom, and to be worn over the boots. From that day till we got beyond the Niemen, a distance of one hundred and ten leagues, which we took three weeks to perform, I never took off any part of my dress. During that time I suffered greatly from my feet; they swelled till my boots were too tight for me, and at times I was in agony. When we at last were comparatively in safety, and I found myself, for the first time since I left Orcha, in a warm room, with a bed to lie upon and water to wash, I called Paul to pull off my boots. Sir, with them came off my stockings, and the entire skin of both feet. A flayer’s knife could hardly have done the thing more completely. For a moment I gave myself up as lost. I had seen enough of this kind of thing to know that my feet were on the verge of mortification. There was scarcely time to amputate, had any been at hand to do it, and had I been willing to preserve life at such a price. Only one thing could save me, and I resolved to try it. I ordered Paul to bring a bottle of brandy; I put a piece of silver between my teeth, and bade him pour the spirits over my feet. I can give you no idea of the excruciating torture I then endured. Whilst it lasted, assuredly no martyr’s sufferings ever exceeded mine. It was agony—but it was safety. I bit the florin nearly in two, and broke this tooth.” (Here the doctor drew up his lip and exhibited a defective tooth, in company with some very white and powerful grinders.) “The martyrdom saved me; I recovered, but the new integuments, which in time covered my scarred feet, seem chilled by the recollection of their predecessors’ sufferings, and from that day to this I have never had my feet otherwise than cold. But here we are at Orleans, sir, and yonder as I expected stands my old Préville.”

The train stopped as he concluded, and a fine-looking veteran, with white hair, an empty sleeve, and a silken patch over one eye, peered inquisitively into the carriages. Like most Englishmen, I have a particular aversion to the Continental fashion of men kissing and hugging each other, but I confess I beheld with interest and sympathy the cordial embrace of these two old comrades, who then quickly separated, and, with hands grasped, looked joyously and affectionately into each other’s faces, whilst a thousand recollections of old kindness and long comradeship were evidently swelling at their hearts. In his joy, my travelling companion did not forget the attentive listener, whose journey he had so agreeably shortened. Turning to me, he presented me to the general, as an Englishman and a new acquaintance, and then cordially invited me to pass the rest of the day at his house. But the business that took me to Orleans was urgent, and my return to Paris must be speedy. And had it been otherwise, I think I still should have scrupled to restrain, by a stranger’s presence, the first flow of intimate communion to which the two friends evidently looked forward with such warm and pleasurable feelings. So I gratefully declined, but pledged myself to take advantage of the doctor’s hospitality upon my next visit to Orleans. When that occurs, I shall hope to glean another Russian Reminiscence.

RECORDS OF THE PAST.—NINEVEH AND BABYLON.

History must ever possess an undying fascination for the minds of men, for its subject is the story of their race, and its interest is ever human to the core. Its burden is now a song of rejoicing at the triumphs, or a wail of lamentation over the errors and sufferings, of mankind. How history, in gifted hands, exults as it reaches those blooming points in a nation’s career—those eras of Pericles, of Augustus, of Haroun-Alraschid, or of our own Elizabeth,—or, piercing back through the veil of time, discerns with joy the brilliant era of a Vicramaditya in the old world of the Hindoos,—the grandeur of a Rameses, or still remoter monarchs in Egypt—or a rule of then unequalled justice and beneficence extending back for countless ages in the early history of secluded China. And how it saddens to see these old empires pass away,—to behold Rome, and Greece, and Nineveh, and Egypt, Susa and Persepolis, and the grand old cities of India, withered, rolled up like a scroll, and vanishing from the face of the earth. Yet with what quiet hopefulness, with what assured resignation, does it contemplate all those changes. “Passing away,” it knows, is written from the first upon the brow of empires as well as of men; and even when the mighty fabrics of human power are seen crumbling into dust beneath internal decay or external assault,—when the stores of knowledge, the monuments of art—in fact, a whole civilisation—seems rushing into oblivion before an onslaught of barbarism, the philosophic historian, with an assuredness of faith stronger than other men’s, knows that the human race is but on the eve of some new and higher development—that all is ordered by One without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, and that from out of the present chaos will emerge new kingdoms and communities of men, purged from the dross of the old, yet inheriting the larger portion of their wisdom.

“All changes, naught is lost. The forms are changed, And that which has been, is not what it was,— Yet that which has been, is.”

History has a grand work yet before it,—one which mankind is just beginning to long for, and which will yet one day be accomplished. History must grow wider in its scope and nobler in its aims as the career of our race advances. It must rise above the colourings of national bias, and the prejudices of particular eras. It must cease—and some day it will cease—to reflect but one phase at a time of that many-sided thing Truth, and will seize and set forth for the instruction of mankind the priceless gem under whatever form it appear, however attired in the strange costume of distant times or foreign countries. It must tell to man a continuous story of his existence. It must recognise the truth that in all those various nations that have flourished and passed away, there has been enshrined the self-same human soul, which the great Creator made in His own image, and which, however manifold in its aberrations, will still be found, on the whole, to reflect more of truth than of error.

Nothing is more elevating than the study of the human race through its successive phases of existence. Therein is to be discovered the scheme of God’s Providence among the nations, slowly raising the race from one stage of progress to another and higher. The world advances slowly,—but still “it moves!” Severed into distinct nations, and divinely placed or led into climes congenial to the peculiar development of each,—secluded behind mountain chains, deserts, or seas, each section of mankind has been left to develop a civilisation of its own—forms of government, religion, art, science, philosophy, more or less peculiar to itself. Through long ages this birth of nations has been going on, each learning for itself the lessons of life. And each of those nations, whether ancient or modern, has attached itself in a peculiar manner to some one of the many forms of truth, carrying it to greater perfection than the other sections of the race. Every one knows that such was the case among the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Hebrews,—but do not let it be supposed that the wisdom of the ancient world ends here. Do not suppose that nothing is to be learned from the old history and writings of China—that land where social ethics and utilitarian science were first carried to comparative perfection; or from the ancient Hindoos, who first pre-eminently devoted themselves to the study of the spiritual nature of man, and in whose lofty speculations may be found the germ of almost every system of philosophy, whether true or false, to which the European world has given birth. Hegel and Spinosa are but Hindoos reviving in the eighteenth century. Auguste Comte, with his boasted new science of Positivism, is but a systematiser of the doctrines of Confucius and the old philosophers of China,—and what are magnetism, clairvoyance, and suchlike researches at present making into the spiritual powers of man, but unconscious repetitions of what has been known or imagined in India for three thousand years?

Had the human race formed from the first but one nation—swayed by but one great impulse, and enlightened but by its own single experience, how comparatively stationary would have been the condition of the species! But severed into separate communities, each seeking truth for itself, and, as intercommunication became wider, comparing its experiences with those of its neighbours, the march of mankind has been greatly accelerated. There have been a hundred searchers after truth instead of one. It is only now, however, in these latter days, that mankind are beginning to perceive and reap the benefit of the beneficent scheme of Providence which has so long kept them secluded in location and antagonistic in feeling. It is in those days of running to and fro upon the earth—when commerce, and railways, and steam-navigation are uniting the most distant regions—that the varied stores of knowledge which have been accumulating in private hoards through long centuries are now being thrown into general circulation. The more advanced nations are teaching the less enlightened. But the gain is not all on one side; and the former will be unworthy of their high position, if they fail to perceive in how very many things they may receive instruction from those whom they regard as their inferiors. The whole tendency of the rapidly-increasing communication between the various nations and countries of the earth is to shake men loose from local prejudices, and, by expanding the mind, to fit it for the reception of that pure and entire truth, towards the attainment of which the human mind is journeying, and to which the matchless plans of Divine Providence are slowly but surely conducting the human race. To the eye of the philosopher, the world is a prism through which Truth is shining—and the nations are the various colours and hues of the spectrum into which that light is broken. Hitherto mankind, split into sections, has only exhibited those scattered and disunited, but brilliant, rays,—truth refracted and coloured by the national mind through which it passed; but now, in the fulness of time, the process is being reversed. The long training of isolated nations is drawing to a close; the barriers of space or feeling which shut them in are being thrown down; an interchange of intellectual as well as material benefits is commencing; and the dissevered rays of partial knowledge are beginning to be reunited into the pure and perfect light of truth.

Let, then, some Newton or Humboldt of history—some one who grudges not a lifetime of genius to the task, and to whom Providence may give length of days,—let such an one take up the theme of those old nations. By the might of his graphic pen let him evoke them and their crumbled empires from the dust, and place them in their pristine glory before the eye of the reader. Let him paint the people, the land in which they dwelt, the temples in which they worshipped;—let him glance with graphic touch over the leading points of their history, the master-spirits who influenced, and the poets who adorned it;—let him depict the arts of life and the arts of beauty which characterised them; and, hardest task of all, let him dive into the depths of their religion and philosophy—not the fantastic crust of superstition, but the more spiritual dogmas which lie below; and, wasting but little time upon what was false, set himself to eliminate the true, and place it once more before the world. In this way let him paint the Chinese, stout, square-set, and supple,—ever labouring contentedly in their rice-fields, and delighting in social intercourse; but also, with a free and martial spirit, of which the world is now incredulous, repelling with slaughter the nomade hordes of Central Asia which subsequently overthrew the mighty empires of the West. Let him depict the country covered with district-schools, and the people trained in social morals by a Government system of education, centuries before the birth of Christ. Let him set forth the practical good sense and kindliness of spirit which characterised the inhabitants of that vast empire, as well as their eminence in the social and industrial arts of life; yet glance with brief but warning words at the materialistic tendencies, alike in creed and practice, by which these good qualities were in some degree counterbalanced. Or turn to the Hindoo, with his slim and graceful figure, symbolising the fine and susceptible spirit within. See him among the flowery woods, luxuriant vegetation, and countless sparkling waters of the Indian land,—so spiritual and alive to the impressions of the external world, that he feels bound in lively sympathy with every living thing around him, whether it be beast or bird, tree or flower,—and in the faith of the most imaginative pantheism that the world ever saw, regarding himself and all created forms as incarnations of the Deity, animated directly by the spirit of the great Creator; and, a firm believer in the transmigration of souls, regarding every object around him with plaintive tenderness, as possibly the dwelling of the soul of some lost friend or relative. See him under his master-sentiment of love. That passion, almost universally in the ancient world, was a mere thirst of the senses; and the few instances in which it figures in the literature of Greece and Rome, it is made to strike its victims like a frenzy. But among the Hindoos we perceive it often sweetened and refined by sentiment,—a spiritual as well as a sensuous yearning,—purer, as ardent, more pervading than the love-passion of contemporaneous nations. And the same spirituality of nature which made the Hindoo thus, fitted him also for the subtlest and loftiest flights of speculation,—savouring little of the utilitarian, indeed, but tending to gratify the soul in many of its highest and purest aspirations. Caste, unknown in China, was in India all-prevalent; and there, also, we meet in its sternest form that spirit of devoted asceticism by which the mystics of the East, and subordinately even in the Christian Church, have striven to exalt themselves above the level of humanity by extinguishing all earthly passion, and so drawing into nearer communion with the Deity.

Or pass to Egypt, and behold the now desolate valley-land of the Nile reinvested with its old splendour and fertility. Let a thousand irrigating canals spread again over the surface, re-clothing the land with verdure; while up from the sands spring miles of temples, pyramids, and endless avenues of sphinxes, obelisks, and gigantic statues. And Thebes with its “hundred gates,” its libraries, and stately palaces,—and Memphis with its immense population, whose bones are still seen whitening the desert sands whereon the city once bloomed amidst verdure,—reappear with crowds of artisans and professional men, carrying the division of labour almost as far as it is done in modern times; while all around a rural population is tending herds or tilling the thrice-fertile soil; and, wearily and worn, innumerable bands of captives—Nubians from the south, Negroes from the desert, Arabs from across the Red Sea, and Syrians and Assyrians from Euphrates to the foot of Mount Taurus—are toiling in digging canals, in making bricks, or in quarrying, transporting, or raising to their place, those huge blocks of granite which fill with astonishment the engineers even of our own times. Turn from all this pomp and bustle and busy hum of life, along that silent mile-long avenue of double sphinxes; and, passing beneath the stupendous ornamented portals of Karnac or Luxor, or some other temple of the land, enter the vast halls and countless apartments devoted to sacerdotal seclusion,—where the white-robed priests of the Nile, bathing three times a day to maintain mental purity and calm, engaged in the abstract sciences, or searched deep into the secrets of nature for that magical power by which they fascinated and subjugated the minds of the people, and which enabled them to contend on almost equal terms with the divinely-commissioned champion of the Hebrews.

Or turn the eye northward, and see the Persian preparing to descend from his mountains and conquer the world. Verdant valleys amidst sterile hills and sandy plains are his home, blazed over by a sun to whose bright orb he kneels in adoration as an emblem of the Deity. Hardy, handsome, chivalrous, luxurious, despotic, and ambitious,—yet animated by a spirit of justice, and by a religious belief so pure as at once to sympathise with that of the Hebrews, and to win for the Persian monarch the title of the “Servant of God;” they are the first in history to exhibit a nation, few in numbers, but strong in arms and wisdom, lording it over an immense tract of country, and over subjugated tribes—Syrians, Assyrians, Asiatic Greeks, and Egyptians—of divers origin and customs from themselves. The iron phalanx of Alexander at length caused this empire of satrapies to crumble into the dust; but under a new dynasty it revived again, so as to wage war successfully even with the all-conquering legions of Rome.

Away, around the shores of the lovely Ægean—on the sunny slopes of Asia Minor, among the sparkling vine-clad islets of the Cyclades, and on the rocky, picturesque, bay-indented peninsula of Greece, the gay and martial Hellenic race disported themselves. As a race, young, imaginative, superstitious, and enamoured of the beautiful, they ascribed every phenomenon in nature to the action of a god—peopled the woods, the hills, the waters, with graceful imaginary beings sympathising with and often visible to man, and filling even the highest heaven with divinities who were gods but in power, and wholly men in passion. Keenly alive to pleasure, and hearing little of the deeper voices of the soul, their thoughts clung wholly to the beautiful world around them; and, while acknowledging the soul’s immortality, they ever looked upon Elysium, their world beyond the grave, as a shadowy land where joy becomes so diluted as hardly to be worth the having. The greatest poets the world ever saw, they embodied their conceptions, alike in literature, in architecture, and the plastic arts, in forms of such divine beauty, that after-ages have abandoned in despair even the hope of rivalling them. The story of Greece is not easily told; it excelled in so many departments of human effort—producing almost simultaneously an Alexander, a Socrates, a Plato, a Demosthenes, an Aristotle—not to speak of a Democritus, a Thales, an Anaxagoras, and others, in whose daring but vaguely-framed systems of the universe are to be found not a few brilliant anticipations of world-wide truth, which modern science is now recovering, and placing on the firm and only definite basis of experiment.

Add to the story of these nations that of the Roman—the great conquerors and legislators,—the story of a city that came to throw its chains over the world,—and thence pass over the dying ashes of Paganism into the new world of Christianity, and to the congeries of kingdoms which arose under its beneficent sway in mediæval Europe, at first small, and never presenting those great contrasts so observable in the old empires of Paganism, but each telling its lesson to those who study it, and some of them already influencing the fortunes of the human race to an extent never possible or dreamt of in prior times. The “meteor-flag” of England is the great object which, in these latter days, arrests the eye of the philosophic observer,—bridging over the seas, peopling continents and islands with civilised man,—and carrying the science, the religion, and the beneficent sway of Great Britain over an empire upon which the sun never sets, and to climes “where Cæsar’s eagles never flew.”

Paradoxical as it may seem, the further we recede from the era of those old nations, the better able are we becoming to write their history and understand their civilisation. Not only are mankind becoming tolerant of truth in whatever attire it present itself, and thus learning to sympathise with, and so comprehend, those old forms of civilisation, but the recent study of the languages of India and China have opened up to us the literature and life of those old countries. The discovery of a clue to the hieroglyphics of Egypt, to the rock-inscriptions of Persia, and to the arrow-headed chronicles of Assyria, constitutes a series of unexpected triumphs, which promises to rend the veil of oblivion from the face of those long-perished empires. Lastly, the earth herself has been giving us back their skeletons. Two old Roman cities, Herculaneum and Pompeii, accidentally discovered, have been cleared of their superincumbent mass of lava and ashes, and given back to the light precisely as they stood on the day when the eruption of Vesuvius overwhelmed them eighteen hundred years ago. Into those long-buried streets we have descended, and seen the domestic civilisation of imperial Rome mirrored in those hastily-abandoned boudoirs and dining-rooms, baths, temples, and public buildings. In the wastes of Persia, Chardin stumbled upon the ruins of imperial Persepolis, whose very site had for ages dropt out of the world’s memory. The thousand monuments of Egypt have been studied, their historic sculptures and mural paintings magnificently copied, and a portrait-gallery published of its ancient dynasties. Finally, Layard and Botta have carried the thirst of discovery to the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates, and have exhumed from the mounds of long-lost Nineveh striking and instructive vestiges of the first of the so-called “universal” empires.

The opportuneness of these revelations of the past cannot but strike one as remarkable. Knowledge revealed too early is lost. Steam, the compass, gunpowder, the principle of the electric telegraph, and a hundred other discoveries made of old might be mentioned, which, in consequence of mankind not being ready for them, wholly dropt out of mind again, or languished on as mere toys or curiosities. And had those old cities been unbared at some earlier period, would they not most lamentably have shared the fate of the monuments which remained above ground—been wantonly destroyed by a barbarous population, or been used as quarries, from whence the degenerate successors of the elder race might indolently draw their building materials? But the earth took them into her own safe keeping, and covered them up until the world had grown older and wiser, and knew how to prize such monuments of memorable but long-forgotten times.

Of all the great empires which have enduringly impressed themselves upon the world’s memory, no one has perished leaving so few visible marks of its existence as that which first rose into greatness in the land of Assyria. It was this memorable region which gave birth to the first of the old “universal empires.” On the plains of Shinar, on the banks of the Lower Euphrates, a community of civilised men was assembled more than four thousand years ago. There, in course of time, arose Babylon, with its impregnable walls, behind which the city might eat and drink and be merry, though the mightiest of ancient hosts were encamped outside. There were the fabled hanging-gardens, the wonder of the world, erected by one of its monarchs to please his young Median bride, whose heart yearned for the hills and groves of her native land. Towering above all was the vast temple of Belus, unequalled for magnificence in the ancient world,—crowned with its gigantic golden statue of the sun-god, rising so high, and flashing so brightly in the upper air, that to the crowds below it seemed invested with the splendours of the deity whom it symbolised. But more than two thousand years have elapsed since all this grandeur came to a sudden end; and so thoroughly has the city mouldered into the dust, and so completely has it buried itself in its own ruins, that during the recent excavations executed on its site, scarcely a detached figure in stone, or a solitary tablet, says Mr Layard, was dug out of the vast heaps of rubbish. “Babylon is fallen, is fallen! and all the graven images of her gods He hath broken unto the ground.”

To the north, near the head of the great Mesopotamian valley, on the banks of the Tigris, stood the sister or rival city of Nineveh—Babylon and it forming, as it were, the foci of the Assyrian realm, which spread out like an ellipse around them. Nineveh, “that great city,” against which Jonah of old uttered his prophetic warnings—from whose gates Sennacherib, Sargon, and Holofernes successively set forth, with their spearmen, and horses, and chariots against Damascus and Israel, and the coasts of Tyre and Sidon,—and around whose walls the combined armies of Persia and Babylonia encamped for three years in vain, fell at last by a doom as sudden and overwhelming as that which overtook Babylon—perishing so utterly, that when Xenophon and the Ten Thousand passed that way, even its name was forgotten, and he notices its mounds of ruins simply as having been those of “an ancient city,” which he calls Larissa.

As Xenophon left those ruins Layard found them. Riding, in company with a friend as daring and enthusiastic as himself, down the right bank of the Tigris, in April 1840, he rested for the night at a small Arab village, around which are still the vestiges of an ancient town; and here he got his first look of the buried city whose discovery was to immortalise his name. “From the summit of an artificial eminence,” he says, “I looked down upon a broad plain, separated from us by the river. A line of lofty mounds bounded it on the east, and one of a pyramidal form rose high above the rest. Beyond it could be faintly traced the waters of the Zab. Its position rendered its identification easy. This was the pyramid which Xenophon had described, and near which the Ten Thousand had encamped; the ruins around it were those which the Greek general saw twenty-two centuries before, and which were even then the remains of an _ancient_ city.”

It must not be supposed, because Nineveh and Babylon are the only cities made much mention of in Assyrian history, that none others of importance existed in the country around. On the contrary, again and again, in the course of his journeys, does Mr Layard speak of mounds of ruins, marking the site of what must once have been “large cities.” In truth, the valley-land of Mesopotamia, with its rich alluvial plains, intersected by the Tigris and Euphrates and their numerous tributaries, presented a vast surface, which at any moment the industry of man might convert into a garden. In remotest times, if in imagination we can recur to the period when first mankind began to settle on its plains, it must have presented a spectacle very much like that which now meets the eye—wide plains of fertile soil springing into verdure wherever it is touched by water, but desert almost everywhere for a great portion of the year. The latent fertility of the region was forthwith developed by the race who there took up their abode. The waters of the rivers were led over the flat plains in long canals, diffusing in all directions their irrigating streams, and causing the teeming soil, under the rays of a glowing and never-failing sun, to produce food in abundance for both man and beast. “A system of navigable canals, that may excite the admiration of even the modern engineer, connected together the Euphrates and Tigris. With a skill showing no common knowledge of the art of surveying, and of the principles of hydraulics, the Babylonians took advantage of the different levels in the plains, and of the periodical rises in the rivers, to complete the water-communication between all parts of the province, and to fertilise, by artificial irrigation, an otherwise barren and unproductive soil.”[146]

This system of irrigation, it is true, was not carried to perfection until a late period in the history of the Assyrian empire; but it must, at the same time, be recollected, that as far back as the light of history penetrates, it is always civilised man that is discerned in the valley of the Euphrates. The vague whisperings of tradition, even, cannot speak of a time when savage tribes wandered over its plains. If we investigate who were the settled inhabitants of the land when first the light of history breaks upon it—the people among whom the old Assyrian empire arose—we will come to the conclusion that the great mass of the population belonged to that purely Syrian race whose settlements have in all ages extended from the banks of the Euphrates to the shores of the Levant. But mixed with this race, very much in the neighbourhood of Babylon, and more faintly as we proceed northwards, were offshoots of the Cushite race,—a people having its principal seats in southern Arabia, along the coasts of the Indian and Red Seas, imperfectly represented by the Himyarite Arabs of the present day, and forming a connecting link between the old races of Syria and Egypt. Into the population thus constituted descended the Chaldeans,—a tribe from the highlands which border the Mesopotamian valley on the north-east, and who, though Syrians in the main, probably approximated somewhat in character to the Persian race. This tribe obtained the ascendant among the population at Nineveh and in the upper portion of the Mesopotamian valley,—imparting to that population, apparently, a sterner character than prevailed in the lower part of the valley and around Babylon. Frequent wars occurred between these half-rival half-sister cities; the general result of which was, that the people of Nineveh held the Babylonians in a more or less perfect state of dependence. In the course of time, too, the Cushite element in the Babylonian population (and which probably gave to it its turn for commerce and maritime enterprise) became extinct; while the Chaldean element, which differed but little from the general mass of the population, seems to have greatly increased. It was from Ur of the Chaldees, in the vicinity of Nineveh, that Abraham, in obedience to the Divine voice, went forth, journeying south-westwards, through the desert lying between the Euphrates and Syria, and, reaching Palestine, became the father of the Hebrew nation. From his loins also proceeded the Idumeans, who proved their superiority to the rest of the Arabian tribes by founding the kingdom of Edom, and excavating the wondrous rock-city of Petra.

Such, then, appears to have been the old population of Assyria. In Genesis we are informed that Ashur went forth out of the land of Shinar, and founded new habitations in the north,—“Nineveh and the city Reheboth, and Calah, and Resen, which is a great city;” but according to the Chaldean historians, the builders of the cities of Assyria came down from the mountains of Armenia. These statements, so far from being inconsistent, tend to corroborate the conjecture which, from other considerations, we had arrived at,—namely, that the Chaldeans were not the first comers into the plains around Nineveh, but found there a lowland population in an advanced state of society, and closely allied in blood and language to themselves. Moses of Chorene expressly records that such was the case; but the real strength of the supposition we rest upon general grounds, which it is needless here to enter upon. This Chaldean tribe, then, which ultimately became the predominant one in the valley of the Upper Tigris, were not the actual founders of the Assyrian cities; but under their ascendancy these cities were strengthened, extended, and embellished so much, as to become as it were the creations of their hands.

The architecture of a nation is ever dependent to a great extent upon the building materials at its command. The alluvial plains of Assyria, unbroken by a single eminence, were singularly destitute of stone of any kind, especially in the lower portion of the valley; so that the inhabitants had to betake themselves to bricks, which they could manufacture in endless abundance by mixing a little straw with the alluvial soil. In Babylonia, where not a slab of stone could be got within hundreds of miles, these bricks were carefully made,—being kiln-dried, and often coloured, and, while the colours were still moist, glazed in the fire. Around Nineveh they were, for the most part, merely dried for a day or two in the hot sun,—and with bricks of this description the houses of Mesopotamia are built to this day. But Nineveh, being nearer the mountains, had a great advantage over Babylon. The plains around it, and the lowlands lying between the Tigris and the hill-country, abound in a kind of coarse alabaster or gypsum, large masses of which protrude in low ridges from the alluvial soil, or are exposed in the gullies formed by winter torrents. Ornamental from its colour and transparency, and offering few difficulties to the sculptor, this alabaster was used by the people of Nineveh in their public buildings. Cut into large slabs, it was used as panels to cover the inner surface of the brick walls,—each slab bearing on its back an inscription recording the name, title, and descent of the king undertaking the work, and being kept in its place by cramps and plugs of metal or wood. After being thus fixed against the wall, the face of the slabs was covered with sculptures and inscriptions,—in some edifices, as at Kouyunjik, each chamber being reserved for some particular historical incident, and each palace, it would appear, only recording in its sculptures the exploits of the king who built it. No pillars are to be found in Assyrian architecture; and the difficulty experienced by the builders in the construction of expansive roofs is shown by the great narrowness of the rooms compared with their length; the most elaborately ornamented hall at Nimroud, although above 160 feet in length, being only 35 feet broad. Forty-five feet appears to have been the greatest width spanned over by a roof; for the great central hall in the north-west palace at Nimroud (110 feet by 90) may have been entirely open to the sky,—and, as it did not contain sculptures, it probably was so. The rooms ranged from 16 to 20 feet in height; the side-walls being covered to twice the height of a man by the sculptured slabs, and their upper portion being built of baked bricks richly coloured, or of sun-dried bricks covered by a thin coat of plaster, on which various ornaments were painted. Of the mode of roofing these palaces we know nothing. Probably the roof was formed of beams resting solely on the side-walls; but as this method would not have sufficed for the larger rooms, from 35 to 45 feet in width, we may conjecture that the beams in some instances were made to meet and rest against each other at a slight angle in the centre of the ceiling, or (more improbably) that wooden pillars or posts were employed which have since entirely mouldered away. No traces of windows are to be found, even in the chambers next the outer walls; so that, as in the temples of Egypt, there must have been square openings or skylights in the ceilings, which may have been closed during the winter-rains by canvass or some such material. The pavement of the chambers was formed either of alabaster slabs, or of kiln-burnt bricks, covered with inscriptions relating to the king;—and beneath this pavement, drains led from almost every room, showing that water might occasionally have entered the rooms from above, by such apertures in the ceiling as have been conjectured.

The interior of these Assyrian palaces must have been as magnificent as imposing. Mr Layard thus graphically describes the spectacle which, in days of old, met the eye of those who entered the abode of the Assyrian kings:—

“He was ushered in through the portal guarded by the colossal lions or bulls of white alabaster. In the first hall he found himself surrounded by the sculptured records of the empire. Battles, sieges, triumphs, the exploits of the chase, the ceremonies of religion, were portrayed on the walls—sculptured in alabaster, and painted in gorgeous colours. Under each picture were engraved, in characters filled up with bright copper, inscriptions describing the scenes represented. Above the sculptures were painted other events—the king, attended by his eunuchs and warriors, receiving his prisoners, entering into alliances with other monarchs, or performing some sacred duty. These representations were enclosed in coloured borders of elaborate and elegant design. The emblematic tree, winged bulls, and monstrous animals were conspicuous amongst the ornaments. At the upper end of the hall was the colossal figure of the king in adoration before the supreme deity, or receiving from his eunuch the holy cup. He was attended by warriors bearing his arms, and by the priests or presiding divinities. His robes, and those of his followers, were adorned with groups of figures, animals, and flowers, all painted with brilliant colours.

“The stranger trod upon alabaster slabs, each bearing an inscription, recording the titles, genealogy, and achievements of the great king. Several doorways, formed by gigantic winged lions or bulls, or by the figures of guardian deities, led into other apartments which again opened into more distant halls. In each were new sculptures. On the walls of some were processions of colossal figures—armed men and eunuchs following the king, warriors laden with spoil, leading prisoners, or bearing presents and offerings to the gods. On the walls of others were portrayed the winged priests, or presiding divinities, standing before the sacred trees.

“The ceilings above him were divided into square compartments, painted with flowers, or with the figures of animals. Some were inlaid with ivory, each compartment being surrounded by elegant borders and mouldings. The beams, as well as the sides of the chambers, may have been gilded, or even plated with gold and silver; and the rarest woods, in which the cedar was conspicuous, were used for the wood-work. Square openings in the ceilings of the chambers admitted the light of day. A pleasing shadow was thrown over the sculptured walls, and gave a majestic expression to the human features of the colossal forms which guarded the entrances. Through these apertures was seen the bright blue of an eastern sky, enclosed in a frame on which were painted, in vivid colours, the winged circle, in the midst of elegant ornaments, and the graceful forms of ideal animals.

“These edifices, as it has been shown, were great national monuments, upon the walls of which were represented in sculpture, or inscribed in alphabetic characters, the chronicles of the empire. He who entered them might thus read the history, and learn the glory and triumphs of the nations. They served, at the same time, to bring continually to the remembrance of those who assembled within them on festive occasions, or for the celebration of religious ceremonies, the deeds of their ancestors, and the power and majesty of their gods.”

This royal magnificence was well guarded. The external walls of the Assyrian cities, as we learn from the united testimony of ancient authors, were of extraordinary size and height. According to Diodorus Siculus, the walls of Nineveh were one hundred feet high,—so broad that three chariots might be driven abreast along their summit,—and fortified with fifteen hundred towers, each of which was two hundred feet in height. According to the same authority, the circumference of the city was sixty miles,—a statement which exactly tallies with the dimensions given in the Book of Jonah, where Nineveh is said to have been three days’ journey round about. This is an immense circuit,—but it must be recollected that the dimensions of an Eastern city do not bear the same proportion to its population as those of an European city. The custom, prevalent to some degree in Southern Asia, even in the earliest times, of secluding the women in apartments removed from those of the men, as well as the heat of the climate, renders a separate house for each family almost indispensable, and is perfectly incompatible with that economy of space, and close aggregation of dwellings, which we witness in the cities of the West. Moreover, within the circuit of those old cities there used to be a “paradise” or hunting-ground for the king, and orchards, gardens, and an extensive tract of arable land; so that the inhabitants, behind their impregnable walls, could bid defiance alike to force and to famine. From the expression of Jonah, that there was much cattle within the walls of Nineveh, it may be inferred that there was also pasture for them. Many cities of the East—as, for instance, Damascus and Ispahan—are still built in this manner; the amount of their population being greatly disproportionate, according to our Western notions, to the site which they occupy.

If we take the four great mounds of Nimroud, Kouyunjik, Khorsabad, and Karamles, as the corners of an elongated quadrangle (eighteen miles by twelve), it will be found that the form as well as the circumference of the city correspond pretty accurately with the statements of ancient writers. Each quarter of this vast city, says Mr Layard, may have had its peculiar name; hence the palace of Evorita, where Saracus destroyed himself—and the Mespila and Larissa of Xenophon, which names the Greek general applies respectively to the mound-ruins at Kouyunjik and Nimroud. It is certain that large fortified enclosures existed within the outer walls, surrounding the principal buildings or palaces, and capable of defence after the rest of the city was stormed. These four great mounds, the scene of Mr Layard’s excavations, mark the site of the principal public buildings of Nineveh,—apparently at once temples and palaces,—built upon elevated platforms of masonry, like the temples of the ancient Mexicans, and, from their great strength, always placed so as to form part of the external defences of the city. But these were not the only great buildings in Nineveh; for within the quadrangle described by these ruins, many other large mounds are to be seen, and the face of the country is strewed with the remains of pottery, bricks, and other fragments. The space between the great public buildings was doubtless occupied by private houses, standing in the midst of gardens, and built at distances from each other; or forming streets which enclosed gardens of considerable extent, and even arable land. The absence of the remains of these houses, says Mr Layard, is easily accounted for. “They were constructed almost entirely of sun-dried bricks, and, like the houses now built in the country, soon disappeared altogether when once abandoned, and allowed to fall into decay. The largest palaces would probably have remained undiscovered, had not slabs of alabaster marked the walls. There is, however, sufficient to indicate that buildings were once spread over the space above described; for, besides the vast number of small mounds everywhere visible, scarcely a husbandman drives his plough over the soil without exposing the vestiges of former habitations.”

From the numerous large mound-ruins visible on the Mesopotamian plains, it is evident that the work of excavation is only commenced. The long-sealed book of Assyrian history and antiquities has only begun to be unrolled; and in the course of another generation the labours of Layard will probably be as far exceeded as those of Belzoni in Egypt have been by the recent investigations of Lepsius and Champollion-le-Jeune. It is needless, then, at present to waste time in the discussion of moot points in Assyrian history, which in a few years fresh discoveries may at once set definitively at rest. As yet, Assyrian chronology has been but little advanced by the recent researches,—and this principally owing to the circumstance, already mentioned, that the sculptures and inscriptions of each palace relate only to the career of the particular king who erected or embellished it. All we know is, that the palaces at Nimroud (if we except the unfinished one) must have been built at least nine centuries B.C.; but that the earliest of them may have been reared by the great Ninus himself[147] (2000 B.C.),—a most unsatisfactory state of knowledge; and that the palaces at the other angles of the city—namely, Kouyunjik, Karamles, and Khorsabad—were erected, to all appearance, between the ninth and sixth centuries B.C. We know, however, with all certainty, that a great crisis and convulsion in the fortunes of the State occurred between the erection of the earlier and later series of palaces. This convulsion was probably occasioned by the successful revolt of the Medes under Arbaces, and the capture of Nineveh, about 950 B.C., which brought to an end the ancient dynasty of Ninus and Semiramis, after thirteen centuries of power, and established a new family on the throne.

Ninus—whose character as a great hunter of the lion and panther tallies with the scriptural accounts of Nimrod—is said, by the general consent of many ancient writers, to have founded the Assyrian monarchy more than two thousand years before Christ,—doing so in the midst of a people far advanced in civilisation, whose works, says Moses of Chorene, the new-comers endeavoured to destroy, and whose knowledge of the arts was taken advantage of by the conquerors in the erection and embellishment of their palaces. In corroboration of this it may be stated, that of all the specimens of Assyrian art which have been discovered, the most ancient are invariably the best,—a curious fact, agreeing with, but not establishing, the hypothesis that the builders of the most ancient edifices at Nineveh were assisted by a people of skill superior to their own.

The boundaries of the Assyrian monarchy, like that of every other long-established empire, fluctuated from age to age. At the epoch of its greatest power, it appears to have maintained an ascendancy over Persia and Media, and from thence westwards to the shores of the Levant; while it is indisputable that its rule was for long dominant in Asia Minor, where towns were built and colonies founded by the Assyrian monarchs,—Troy itself, according to Plato, having been one of their dependencies. The prowess of the Assyrian armies in later times made itself felt even in Egypt; but in the wars between these two great antagonists, there is reason to believe that the balance of success lay chiefly with the Egyptians. It would appear that for a considerable period, between the 14th and 9th centuries B.C., a close connection, either by conquest or friendly intercourse, existed between these two empires,—which connection produced considerable changes in the arts and customs of Assyria, as may be witnessed in the introduction of the sitting sphinxes of Nimroud, and the lotus-shaped ornaments of Khorsabad and Kouyunjik. On the earliest monuments of Nineveh we read of expeditions undertaken against Babylon, which city was at first unquestionably independent of the Assyrian princes, but which ere long became subject to them—wearing their chains, however, unwillingly, and occasionally in name rather than in fact. When the Medes revolted under Arbaces, the governor of Babylon took part with the rebels, and in alliance with them succeeded in capturing Nineveh, and destroying its public buildings—if not depopulating it. Under the new or later dynasty, however—which counts in its brief roll the great names of Sargon and Sennacherib—Nineveh rose in renewed splendour and power: the palaces of Kouyunjik, Karamles, and Khorsabad were built, the last of which excelled all its predecessors in magnificence; and the city attained those vast dimensions described by Diodorus and the prophet Jonah. But the days of this great city and ancient empire were fast drawing to a close. Headed by Cyaxares and Nabopolassar, the combined armies of the Persians and Babylonians again approached its walls; and after a protracted siege of nearly three years, they at length (606 B.C.) captured the city at a time when the river had overflowed its bed and carried away a portion of the wall. The city was then utterly destroyed—the torch was put to its noble palaces, and its inhabitants were compulsorily distributed among the adjoining towns and villages. Nineveh was no more. Twelve centuries afterwards (A.D. 627), the great battle between Heraclius and Rhazates was fought within the space once compassed by its walls. “The city, and even the ruins of the city,” says Gibbon, “had long ago disappeared: the vacant space afforded a spacious field for the operations of the two armies.”

The primitive religion of the Assyrians appears to have been a form of Sabæanism. It appears to have consisted in the worship of the sun—not as the Deity, but as an emblem of the Deity—as the greatest, most glorious, and most beneficent of His works in the eye of man, and the mystery of whose unbeholdable splendours not unaptly symbolised the presence of Him “who dwelleth in light that is inaccessible and full of glory.” But the peculiar part of the Chaldean faith or philosophy was the influence which it ascribed to the planets over the life and fortunes of men. The belief in astrology is one of the oldest, if not absolutely the very oldest, which one meets with in the history of postdiluvian mankind. It was not confined to any one nation, or any one era of the world. It has lived from the earliest times, down through several thousand years, to the middle ages of Europe, and still lingers even at the present day. To take the last spots in the world where one is likely to find old-world notions lingering—“Raphaels” and “Zadkiels” are to be found even in the capitals of England and France, where astrological almanacs are at this moment yearly published, containing predictions of the future—one of which modern Magi boasts that he correctly predicted the death of the “hero of Waterloo,” and both of whom, we believe, prophesied two years ago that 1854 is to be the death-year of Louis Napoleon! But the East is the native land of astrology; and there, to this day, it is believed in as firmly as if it belonged to the domain of the positive sciences. It is curious to know that one of the causes of the disastrous issue of the last battle (August 5) between the Turks and Russians in Asia, was the obstinate adhesion of the Turkish general to an astrological crotchet. The Russians had detached a division of their army to Bayazid, where they surprised and defeated a Turkish corps; but no sooner did General Guyon learn of this movement, than he counselled the Turkish commander, Zarif Pasha, immediately to advance and attack the main body of the Russians while thus weakened. The Pasha, however, while assenting to the plan, would not move at the time required, alleging that neither that day nor the morrow would do for the attack, “because the stars were unpropitious.” Eight-and-forty hours were thus lost, big with the fortunes of the campaign; and the consequence was, that when the Turks did at last advance, they found not only that the Russian detachment had rejoined the main body, but that the Russian general had been fully apprised by his spies of the meditated night-march of his enemies.

We have not space here to undertake an investigation of the old Chaldean faith, nor to point out the principles in human nature by a rash reasoning upon which astrology seems to have arisen. We would remark, however, that the convulsion which intervened between the fall of the first Assyrian dynasty and the rise of the second, occasioned, or was at least accompanied by, a change in the State-religion of the country. In the palaces at Khorsabad and Kouyunjik, built by the second dynasty, we find no traces of the religious emblems so frequent in the sculptures of the earliest palaces at Nimroud. The emblem of the great Divinity—the winged figure within the circle—has never been found in the later-built palaces; and from the frequent representations of the fire-altar in the bas-reliefs from those ruins, and on cylinders, evidently of the same period, there is reason to believe that a fire-worship, like that introduced by Zoroaster among the Persians, had succeeded to the purer forms of Sabæanism. Although eagle-headed figures, and other mythic forms, exist in the earliest sculptures at Nineveh, in no case do they appear to have been objects of worship. The king is only seen in adoration before one symbol of the Deity—the figure of which we have already spoken, with the wings and tail of a bird enclosed in a circle, resembling the Ormuzd of the Persian monuments. He is generally standing or kneeling beneath this circled figure with his hand raised in sign of prayer or adoration. This symbol of the Deity is never represented above any person of inferior rank, but appears to watch specially over the king—who among the Assyrians, as among all the old nations, was regarded as the type and representative of the nation. It is seen above him on all occasions, in the sculptures, sympathising with and assisting him, like a good Providence. If it presides over a triumph, its action resembles that of the king; and when represented over the king in war, it is seen, like a god of battles, shooting its arrows against the enemies of the Assyrians. The most superficial examination of the sculptures suffices to prove the sacred character of the king. Not only is the symbol of the great Deity above him, as well as the sun, moon, and planets; but the priests, or lesser divinities (whichever the winged human figures so frequently found on the Assyrian monuments may be), are represented as waiting upon or ministering to him. This is just a development of the old patriarchal principle, by which a father used to worship on behalf of his family. At this day the principle is carried out to the fullest extent in China, where the “higher sacrifices” can only be offered by the Emperor in person, who actually regards himself as the father of the nation, and who, on occasion of national calamities, fasts and makes public confession of his sins and shortcomings, looking upon them as the reason why the Divine wrath is poured out upon his people.

A marked difference is likewise observable in the style of ornamental art under the earlier and later dynasties. What principally distinguishes Assyrian from Egyptian sculpture is, that the former is entirely free from the angular mode of treatment so conspicuous in the latter. It is more florid, and altogether more advanced; but at the same time it must be said, that in regard to accuracy we incline to place greater estimation upon the portrait-sculpture of Egypt than upon that of Assyria. In the later monuments of Nineveh we find direct, although not very extensive, traces of Egyptian influence; but the principal distinction between the earlier and later sculptures is, the greater knowledge of design and composition displayed in the former. The bas-relief representing the Lion-hunt, now in the British Museum, is a good illustration of the earliest school of Assyrian art yet discovered. It far exceeds the later sculptures in the vigour of treatment, the elegance of the forms, and in what the French aptly term _mouvement_,—as well as by the evident attempt at composition, the artistical arrangement of the groups. The sculptors who worked at Khorsabad and Kouyunjik perhaps possessed more skill in handling their tools, and their work is frequently superior to that of the earlier artists in delicacy of execution—as, for instance, in the details of the features—and in boldness of relief; but they are decidedly inferior to their ancestors in the higher branches of art—in the treatment of a subject, and in beauty and variety of form.

The domestic furniture, arms, utensils, and personal ornaments of the Assyrians show a very refined and cultivated taste. In their arms they rivalled even the Greeks in elegance of design. Their drinking-cups and vessels used on festive occasions were apparently of gold, like those of Solomon, or of silver; and they were frequently wrought into the shape of the head and neck of an animal—such as a lion or bull—and resembled those afterwards in use among the Greeks, and found in the tombs of Etruria. Their thrones, tables, and couches were made both of metal and wood; and the tables and chairs were frequently shaped like our camp-stools, and may have been made to close. On the earliest monuments, the chair is represented richly cushioned, with the seat and legs tastefully carved, but without a back,—in the later monuments the back is added, but the chairs exhibit less elegance. Indeed, in domestic and personal ornament, as in the higher branches of art, the most ancient Assyrian monuments greatly exceed the later. “Many forms had been preserved,” says Mr Layard, “as in the swords, bracelets, and armlets; but they had evidently degenerated, and are more coarsely designed in the sculptures. This is also evident in the embroideries of the robes, and in the details of the chariots. We see the same love of elaborate and profuse decoration, but not that elegance and variety so conspicuous in the ornaments of the first period. The kneeling bull or wild-goat, the graceful flower, and the groups of men and animals skilfully combined, are succeeded by a profusion of rosettes, circles, and squares, covering the whole surface of the dress, or the sides of the chariots. Although there is a certain richness of appearance, yet the classic forms, if the term may be used, of the earlier artists, are wanting.”

The materials at our command are as yet too scanty to enable us to arrive at definite conclusions as to the manners and private life of the Assyrians; but we do not doubt that future discoveries will yet supply the desideratum. Mr Layard says:—

“From casual notices in the Bible and in ancient history, we learn that the Assyrians, as well as those who succeeded them in the empire of Asia, were fond of public entertainments and festivities, and that they displayed on such occasions the greatest luxury and magnificence. The Assyrian king, called Nabuchodonosor in the book of Judith, on returning from his victorious expedition against Arphaxad, feasted with his whole army for one hundred and twenty days. The same is related by the Greek authors of Sardanapalus, after his great victory over the combined armies of the Medes. The Book of Esther describes the splendour of the festivals given by the Babylonian king. The princes and nobles of his vast dominions were feasted for one hundred and eighty days; and for one week all the people of Susa assembled in the gardens of his palace, and were served in vessels of gold. The richest tapestries adorned the halls and tents, and the most costly couches were prepared for the guests. Wine was served in abundance, and women, including even the wives and concubines of the monarch, were frequently present to add to the magnificence of the scene. According to Quintus Curtius, not only did hired female performers exhibit on these occasions, but the wives and daughters of the nobles, forgetting their modesty, danced before the guests, divesting themselves even of their garments. Wine was drunk immoderately. When Babylon was taken by the Persians, the inhabitants were celebrating one of their great festivals, and even the guards were intoxicated. The Babylonian king, ignorant of the approaching fate of his capital, and surrounded by one thousand of his princes and nobles, and by his wives and concubines, drank out of the golden vessels that had been carried away from the Jewish temple. On the walls of the palace at Khorsabad was a bas-relief representing a public feast, probably in celebration of a victory. Men were seen seated on high chairs with drinking-cups in their hands; whilst attendants were bringing in bowls, goblets, and various fruits and viands, for the banquet. At Nimroud part of a similar bas-relief was discovered. Music was not wanting on these occasions.”

The arts and civilisation of Nineveh represent those of Babylon also. Babylon, though it was long of attaining to the political greatness of her rival, was evidently an older city. It can hardly be doubted that it arose from the first gathering of mankind upon the plains of Shinar. From notices of it on Egyptian monuments of the time of Thothmes III., it is evident that it was a place of considerable note at least in the fifteenth century before Christ. Although for long politically overshadowed by her neighbour Nineveh, Babylon at an early period became famous for the extent and importance of her commerce. No position could then have been more favourable than hers for carrying on a trade with all the regions of the known world. She stood upon a navigable stream that brought to her quays the produce of the temperate highlands of Armenia—running westward in one part of its course to within a hundred miles of the Mediterranean, and emptying its waters into a gulf of the Indian Ocean. Parallel to this great river, and scarcely inferior to it in size, was the Tigris, flowing through the fertile plains of Assyria, and carrying their produce to the Babylonian cities. The inhabitants turned these natural advantages to the best account; and their industry and enterprise, cooperating with that of civilised people in the adjoining countries, greatly increased the means of locomotion. Highroads and causeways across the Desert connected Babylonia with Syria and Palestine. Fortified stations protected the merchant from the wandering tribes of Arabia,—walled cities served as resting-places and storehouses,—and wells at regular intervals gave an abundant supply of water during the hottest season of the year. One of those highways was carried through the centre of Mesopotamia, and, crossing the Euphrates near the town of Anthemusia, led into Central Asia;—a second appears to have left Babylon by the western quarter of the city, and entered Idumea, after passing through the country of the Nabathæans;—while others branched off to Tadmor, and to other cities built in the Desert almost solely for purposes of trade. To the east of Babylon was the celebrated military and commercial road described by Herodotus, leading from Sardis to Susa in ninety days’ journey, and furnished at intervals of about fifteen miles with stations and public hostelries, probably resembling the modern caravanserais of Persia. A very considerable trade was likewise carried on with India, through Media, Hyrcania, and the centre of Asia,—by which route it was, probably, that the greater part of the precious stones and gold were supplied to Babylon. A coasting trade existed along the shores of the Persian Gulf eastwards. The prophet Isaiah alludes to the ships of the Chaldeans; and we learn from the Kouyunjik inscriptions that the inhabitants of the country at the mouth of the Euphrates possessed vessels in which, when defeated by the Assyrians, they took refuge on the sea. It is difficult to determine to how far the Babylonians may have navigated the Indian Ocean; but of the merchandise in which they traded, the pearls, cotton, spices, precious stones, ivory, ebony, silks, and dyes, a large portion, if not the whole, must have been obtained from the southern coasts of Arabia, and from the Indian peninsula. Their exports consisted both of manufactures and of the natural produce of the country. Corn was cultivated to a great extent, and sent to distant provinces; and the Babylonian carpets, silks, and woollen fabrics, woven or embroidered with figures of mythic animals, and with exquisite designs, were not less famous for the beauty of their texture and workmanship, than for the richness and variety of their colours.

Babylon reached her zenith of power and magnificence immediately after the final destruction of Nineveh. Under Nebuchadnezzar she succeeded to the proud position so long held by her rival. The bounds of the city were extended; buildings of extraordinary size and magnificence were erected, and her victorious armies conquered Syria and Palestine, and penetrated into Egypt. But her greatness as an independent State was short-lived. The Medians and Persians, who had been the principal agents in the overthrow of the Assyrian empire, now united under one king, turned their warlike strength against their former ally Babylon; and scarcely half a century had elapsed from the fall of Nineveh, when “Belshazzar, the king of the Chaldeans, was slain, and Darius the Median took the kingdom.”

From that time Babylonia sank into a province of Persia—still retaining, however, much of its former power and trade; and, as we learn from the rock-inscriptions of Bisutun, as well as from ancient authors, struggling more than once to regain its independence. When Alexander the Great overthrew the Persian empire, Babylon opened its gates to him, and he deemed the city worthy to become the capital of his mighty empire. The early death of the conqueror, however, without leaving a successor, prevented his splendid projects being carried into execution; and the last blow to the prosperity of Babylon was given by Seleucus, when he laid the foundations of his new capital (Seleucia) on the banks of the Tigris (B.C. 322). Nevertheless, a considerable population seems to have lingered in the fast-decaying city; for, five centuries afterwards, we find the Parthian king Evemerus sending numerous families from Babylon into Media, to be sold as slaves, and burning many great and beautiful edifices which still remained standing. At the time of the Arab invasion, in the beginning of the seventh century, the ancient cities of Babylon were “a desolation, a dry land, and a wilderness.” Amidst the heaps that marked the site of Babylon herself, there rose the small town of Hillah, which, with its falling gateway, mean bazaar, and a few half-ruined mosques, still exists, as if in mockery of the power and splendour which in long-departed ages had there its abode.

Moral corruption was the ruin of Babylon, as of all the great empires of the old world. Her vast trade, which rendered Babylon the gathering-place of men from all parts of the known world, which poured wealth into her coffers, and furnished her with luxuries of all kinds, had the effect of producing an effeminacy and general profligacy, which mainly contributed to her fall. There is no necessary connection between prosperity and corruption; nevertheless, in nations as in individuals, it is generally found that a long lease of prosperity—especially if conjoined with much wealth, which at once allows of indolence and invites to self-indulgence—dwarfs the generous and lofty feelings of our nature, and renders both men and nations selfish in feeling, and absorbed in the material comforts and pleasures of life. In Babylon this tendency was aggravated, at least in later times, by the corruptions of its religion, promoted by a hierarchy which, in course of time, became at once too rich and too powerful for its own purity, and too profligate not to insure the corruption of the people. The description given by Herodotus of the manners of the people, when under the dominion of the Persian kings, is sufficient to explain the cause of Babylon’s speedy fall and ultimate ruin; and his account tallies perfectly with the denunciations of the city’s wickedness by the prophets of Israel. Her inhabitants, as generally happens, along with their moral integrity lost their warlike character. When the Persians broke into the city, they were revelling in debauchery and lust; and when the Macedonian conqueror appeared at their gates, they received with indifference the yoke of a new master.

“It is not difficult,” says Mr Layard, “to account for the rapid decay of the country around Babylon. As the inhabitants deserted the city,” and a foreign yoke pressed heavily upon them, “the canals were neglected; and when once those great sources of fertility were choked up, the plains became a wilderness. Upon the waters conveyed by their channels to the innermost parts of Mesopotamia, depended not only the harvests, the gardens, and the palm-groves, but the very existence of the numerous towns and villages far removed from the river-banks.” Built of unbaked bricks, “they soon turned to mere heaps of earth and rubbish. Vegetation ceased; and the plains, parched by the burning heat of the sun, were ere long once more a vast arid waste.”

So flourished and so fell Nineveh and Babylon. For fourteen centuries the Assyrian empire, of which they formed the pillars, was the leading Power in Western Asia,—overlapping to the south with that of Egypt, with which it was sometimes at peace, sometimes at war, at first a dependent and latterly victorious. We think the character of these two old empires may be symbolised by their different styles of architecture,—Egypt built with granite, and Assyria with alabaster and painted brick. It was not to geographical position that the difference was owing. The valley of the Nile and that of the Euphrates are much alike. Both are alluvial in their character, and possess but little stone; and with both nations, accordingly, brick was the ordinary material employed in building. In both countries quarries of granite and other stone existed in the mountains which bordered the valley-land, with rivers upon which the stone might be floated down on rafts. But the one nation used this material, and the other did not. The Egyptians, indomitable in science, and animated by grander views than their Asiatic rivals, sent several hundred miles for intractable but everlasting granite, whereon to design their sculptures and inscriptions, and with which to rear those vast and countless edifices which seem destined to perpetuate the fame and history of their founders to the end of time. The Assyrians, fonder of luxury than of fame, more desirous of display than of enduring strength, contented themselves with materials which they could get without trouble, but ornamenting the brick with colours, or coating it with slabs of soft alabaster, which they found protruding from the ground beneath their feet. The architecture of Egypt was grand and strong—that of Assyria was vast and showy. Egyptian sculpture was angular, and strove to be correct,—that of Assyria was round and florid. Although we know as yet but little of the arts and customs of life among the Assyrians, we may confidently conjecture that they were left comparatively unshackled by rule, and at the sway of individual impulse; whereas in Egypt rule and system pervaded everything, alike in art and in society.

Of all the empires of the first period of the world, the Assyrian is the one whose history and civilisation most closely connect themselves with the subsequent destinies of mankind. India and China were isolated empires, each developing a civilisation for itself, independent of and wholly uninfluencing the rest of the world. Egypt was less so; but it also, secluded in position and unproselytising in spirit, stands apart from the community of nations, and may be studied like an isolated statue placed in a niche. With Assyria, however, the case is far otherwise. Its influence, extending for centuries over Western and Southern Asia—from the frontiers of Affghanistan to the Levant, from the Persian Gulf to the shores of the Ægean Sea—was potent in modifying a vast population, destined to give birth to many civilised States. From its loins proceeded the empire of Persia,—which was, in fact, in all respects only a modification of the empire which it supplanted; while these two, by their great influence over all western Asia, including the Greek settlements of Ionia, must have affected in no slight degree the Hellenic mind—especially from the period when Alexander by his conquests drew Greece bodily into Asia. As yet, as we have said, the book of Assyrian history and civilisation is only beginning to be unrolled; but there are already in the possession of the literati of Europe written cylinders and inscriptions which, when deciphered, will cast important light upon matters as yet in the dark. Doubtless many more will be found even in the ruins already opened,—only one of which, let it be noted, has been thoroughly searched. Above all, ruins upon ruins are to be seen scattered over the plains of Mesopotamia, which Mr Layard himself describes as the evident remains of ancient cities, and which offer ample scope for the labours of more than one generation of investigators. We shall get at the truth at last. Years may roll by, and still see but little progress made in the search;—but there, underneath, lie the records of the past for which we seek, and earth will keep them safe until we are ready to dig for them in earnest.

THE OPENING OF THE GANGES CANAL.

_8th April 1854._

From distant-lying lands, Lone in grey surges of the misty north, The little band came forth, Who meet their God to-day with thankful prayer: The myriads clap their hands, Sons of the soil now desolate and bare, And their glad voices rise upon the morning air.

It comes, long-wished-for, comes, The tamed and friendly flood, While blatant arms and rattling drums Sway to the peaceful conquest their unwonted mood.

And you, O ancient peaks, Cold-glancing in the early sun! This crowd, in every murmur, speaks Your glory;—now is done Your lonely age; your true life is begun:

Still through the night, from ledge to ledge The avalanches fall, Still rears its crag and breathless edge Your præmemorial wall; Yet may you swell our hymn to-day, Your old reproach is taken away,—

Barren no more! Like her who bore In her white age the lost hope of her prime, Yet heard the Heavenly pledge with glad surprise, Ye, having won your heritage from time, Lift your hoar heads with laughter to the skies.

And years to come shall hear your praise, Far other than the fame of demon-gods, Holding their grim abodes On Meru’s top through fabled sæcular days; Years hence, some aged man may say— Of those who stand to-day By the glad baptism of your youngest born;— Where, from his fruit-grove, far around He eyes the green and affluent ground:— “I stood among them on that shining morn, I saw the ruler of the land Let loose the waters with an easy hand; The river, vainly idolised of yore, Now first her servants blessed; The white-topped mountains never bore Us benefit before, Till taught by those wise strangers of the West.

One shade alone hung o’er us, To cloud the scene before us, And temper with humility our joy— One mild but earnest voice, though still, Told us of mingled good and ill, And the old moral of the world’s alloy!”

Ah!—may our names, like his,[148] be known, When we are passed and grown But Memories, as Greek and Moghul are, By deeds like these alone, True triumphs, that atone, And vindicate the violence of war. H.G.K.

THE USES OF BEAUTY.

Heart-throbs of Poesy; Old storied walls; Tint-beams of brilliancy When daylight falls; Floods of wild melody Through palace-halls; Twilight mists on the deep; Keen stars above; Woman’s sweet fellowship, Holy home—Love;—

All that Earth preaches By Beauty, is given To train and to teach us, And mould us for Heaven. H.G.K.

SPANISH POLITICS AND CUBAN PERILS.

_Madrid, 14th September 1854._

Dear Ebony,—The political chronicle, since last I wrote to you, is far from offering such stirring incidents as were recorded in my July and August despatches. There has been no fighting, although we were once on the brink of it, and things have gone pretty quietly, and, upon the whole, satisfactorily. After the fray comes the feast; and just as my last letter went off, a banquet was given at the Theatre-Royal, by the press of Madrid, to the ministers and a large number of notable persons. The press took an important part in the recent movements here, and has not been unrewarded, several of its members having been appointed to high posts under government. After the dinner, at which speeches and patriotism were plentiful, the next incident of note was the return to Madrid of the small division that first, under O’Donnell and Dulce, raised the banner of revolt against the Sartorius tyranny, and fought the brief but sanguinary fight of Vicálvaro. But the principal event of the last thirty days, the only one which (with its consequences) is worth dwelling upon, is the departure—I might almost say the escape—of Queen Christina from Madrid and from Spain.

In former letters I have given you an idea of the detestation with which Ferdinand’s widow, once so beloved, has long been regarded. To those who remember the affection and enthusiasm testified for her during the early years of her residence in this country, the contrast with the storm of hatred and execration amidst which she has quitted it, is very striking. Then she was the hope of Spain, the idol of the Liberal party; her appearance abroad was the signal for cheers as vehement and heartfelt as any that have since been raised for Espartero. Her name was the soldier’s battle-cry, when combating, amidst the rugged hills of northern and eastern Spain, the partisans of Charles V.; it was the burthen of the songs with which he enlivened his brief intervals of repose, and beguiled the weariness of the march. As I write, there recurs to my memory the burthen of one of those cheerful ditties, in which Spaniards are called upon joyfully to exclaim “_Viva la Reina, Maria Cristina_, she who broke the chains that bound and oppressed us”—and more to that effect. Little more than a month ago, as I walked through the Puerta del Sol—the heart of Madrid, which is the centre of Spain—blind men and ill-favoured women shouted at every corner the titles and contents of scurrilous pamphlets that recounted the misdeeds of “Mother Christina.” It may truly be said that, of the fourteen millions that people Spain, not one person (save her own creatures) could be found to raise his voice in her favour. The charges brought against her are numerous, and but too well founded. She is accused of gross and wilful neglect of her daughter’s education—neglect which has been the main origin of the scandal Isabella has caused, and of the humbled and perilous position in which she now finds herself; her crown tottering on her head, and her only chance of not losing it consisting in implicit obedience to her minister’s directions. She is accused of having betrayed the liberties of Spain, which were intrusted to her keeping; of having trampled on the laws she had sworn to maintain; of having built up a colossal fortune at the expense of the nation; of having, by her unscrupulous greed and shameful political intrigues, by her own conduct, and by her patronage of, and complicity with, some of the worst men in Spain, destroyed all public morality, and augmented to an inconceivable extent administrative corruption. On all these charges, an immense jury, composed of the whole Spanish nation, has unanimously found her guilty. And, since her departure, the general hope and prayer are that she may never again set foot in the country she has so deeply injured. “May the accursed Italian,” said a newspaper the other day, “never return hither to make a traffic of all that is most sacred and holy upon earth.” But, before she had left, the feeling concerning her was in one respect different. It was the opinion of many that it was neither safe nor just to allow her to leave the country. It was remembered how, during her three years’ exile in France, she had intrigued and manœuvred, and lavished treasure, until, aided by the divisions in the Liberal camp and by the incapacity of the Liberal government, she rode into Madrid in the triumphal car of Reaction. Then, it is true, she had a staunch and interested ally in the wily and unscrupulous chief of the house of Orleans. Deprived of his powerful aid and cooperation, she is manifestly much less to be dreaded. But a portion of the Spanish nation, and especially of the inhabitants of the capital, well acquainted with her great cunning and skill in intrigue, and overrating, perhaps, the elements and resources she can command in a foreign country for the purpose of again disturbing Spain’s tranquillity, insisted that she should be caged and not expelled, and moreover that she should be brought to account before the Cortes for the peculations and robberies attributed to her by the voice of the entire nation. You will remember the scenes that occurred at the palace soon after Espartero’s arrival here, and the vain attempts then made to get her off in safety, whilst armed and menacing crowds were vigilant to prevent her passage, and could be induced to abandon their watch over their sovereign’s palace, and their stations upon the roads from Madrid, only by a promise from the government that the object of the popular wrath should not be allowed clandestinely to depart. But it soon was found that if there was a probability of her being dangerous abroad, there was a certainty of her being so at home. Her daughter’s residence again became a focus of intrigue. This got so well known, the reactionary party, encouraged by having their old protectress to lean upon, were so active, and symptoms were observed so dangerous to public tranquillity, that the chiefs of the national guard sent a deputation to the government, urging strongly the removal of Christina from the palace. As the national guard of Madrid now consists of upwards of twenty thousand men, and as they elect their own chiefs, who must therefore be considered to represent the opinions and enjoy the confidence of the majority, the prayer of such a deputation naturally had weight; and at cabinet councils held on that and the following day, the principal question discussed was—What is to be done with the Queen-mother? The impossibility of preventing her intrigues, should she remain in Spain, except by confinement too rigorous to be legal, determined the council to expel her from the country; attaching her property until the Cortes should have investigated her conduct, and decided concerning the charges brought against her. This plan resolved upon, it was immediately put into execution. The determination was come to on the evening of the 27th August. On the 28th, at seven in the morning, the ministers were at the palace, to witness the Queen-mother’s departure. The adieus were brief. Christina betrayed no emotion at parting from her daughter, who, on her part, dropped a few decorous tears, but was not very greatly afflicted. There has never been much affection between the two queens, although the elder of them, by her astuteness and superior strength of character, has exercised great influence over the younger. The Queen-mother then took leave of the ministers, whom she must heartily detest; recommended her daughter to the care and watchful guardianship of Espartero, and entered a large travelling-vehicle, accompanied by her husband, who looked grievously dejected, and attended by an ecclesiastic of high rank, and by several persons of her household. Her children’s departure had preceded hers. Some were in Portugal, others in France. Escorted by two squadrons of cavalry, under the command of the well-known General Garrigó, she reached, by short stages, and without molestation, the frontier of the former country.

Few persons were present at Christina’s departure, although it was stated in the French papers, whose blunders concerning Spanish affairs are incessant and amusing, that the windows of the palace were filled with ladies waving handkerchiefs, and that its roof was crowded with national guards. The truth is, that hardly anybody in Madrid knew of the Queen-mother’s going, until she had actually gone. As the news spread, a certain excitement was manifested, and towards eleven o’clock a crowd of men, many of them armed, thronged the small square in front of Espartero’s residence, with menacing shouts of Down with the Ministry! and loud demands for the return of Christina. An aide-de-camp presenting himself at a window to address them, firearms were levelled at him, and he was compelled to retire. The fermentation each moment increased. Deputations from various public bodies waited upon the premier to express their disapproval of the step taken. The general impression abroad was, that a trick had been played on the people, that faith had been broken with them, and that the government was pledged not to suffer the departure of Christina until the Cortes had decided concerning her. The verbal pledge given by Espartero to a deputation, at a time when it was a great object to get rid of the bodies of armed men who beset the palace, and infested the environs of Madrid, making it their business to guard against the escape of the Queen-mother, was, that she should not depart furtively, either by day or by night. Her departure, therefore, at eight in the morning, when the gazette containing its announcement had been but an hour published, was held to be a violation of this promise, as far as regarded the people. On the other hand, the national guard had insisted, through its chiefs, that Christina should not remain at the palace; there was danger to the tranquillity of Madrid if she continued there; her property in Spain, and her pension of thirty thousand pounds a year, which was suspended, offered considerable security for the financial improprieties of which she might be found to have been guilty. To let her leave the country was manifestly the wisest course, and it was adopted. It has been urged that it would have been more straightforward of the government, and would have prevented even the imputation of a breach of faith, to have summoned commissions of the national guards, the corporation, and other bodies, and from them to have obtained, beforehand, that approval of the measure which was almost unanimously accorded to them a few hours after it had been taken. But in cases of this kind there is a wide difference between before and after. The same men who, when the thing was done, supported the cause of order and the government, of whose good intentions they were sure, and of the wisdom of whose conduct they presently became persuaded, might have assumed a different attitude had they been consulted in advance. Moreover, by acting in that way, by deferring on every occasion to the popular voice, whether it spoke words of wisdom or words of folly, the ministers could never hope to gain strength, which was what they most needed. In short, it might have been a very difficult and dangerous business to get Christina out of Madrid, had the intention been published the day before; and doubtless the government preferred risking the unfounded imputation of a deception, to incurring the responsibility of fresh collisions. In my opinion, as an eyewitness of all that passed, it would have been hazardous to have acted otherwise than the ministers did. As it was, not a shot was fired, not a wound received; and three days after the affair, everybody seemed convinced that the best had been done.

I shall not dwell upon the incidents of the afternoon and night of the 28th August, of which you will have already seen accounts. For a short time things looked menacing, and many expected a fight. The council of ministers, assembled in the large building on the Puerta del Sol which is at once the Spanish “Home Office” and the main guard-house, received numerous delegates from the corporation, the provincial deputation, and from other public bodies; expounded to them their views and reasons, and received promises of support. Meanwhile the national guard—a portion of it somewhat sulky and dissatisfied—took up arms and prepared to maintain order. A considerable number of barricades had been thrown up. The presence and exhortations of General San Miguel sufficed for some of these to be removed by their makers. But in a small section of the town they were maintained; and a few hundred malcontents busied themselves in strengthening them, and declared their intention of defending them. Over their uneven summits were to be seen the barrels of muskets and fowling-pieces, and a few familiar faces which had often crossed my sight during the revolution of July. It was not certain what the barricaders wanted; in fact, there was a strange combination of elements; but the chief demand they put forward was, the dismissal of the ministry, whom they declared to have betrayed the people. As far as I could observe, Espartero was excepted from this verdict; but only by those of the insurgents who, however mistaken in the course they pursued, acted in good faith, and in support of their own political views. There were many others who were actuated by widely different motives. The reactionary and absolutist party had its representatives at the barricades; foreign influence was also at work; and it has been supposed by some that Christina had supplied funds—not, perhaps, in anticipation of the outbreak (although even that she may have foreseen), but to be in readiness for any occasion of mischief that might present itself. It was clearly for her interest, the revolution having gone so far, to see it carried farther. If the ultra-democratic party, aided by the rabble of the low districts of Madrid, could gain the ascendant, the certain result was anarchy. Then would come reaction, and Christina and her friends might hope to resume their places and recommence their spoliations. Accordingly, there can be no doubt—indeed, it were easily proved—that agents of the expelled party—the Palacos, as they are called—stimulated and assisted in the disturbances of the 28th August. Their efforts were of no avail against the steady attitude of the national guards, who remained for eighteen hours under arms in the streets, obedient to their officers, and turning a deaf ear to the perfidious insinuations of agents who sought to set them against the government, and to divide them amongst themselves. The insurgents, seeing that their cause was hopeless, and having the promise, from Espartero’s own lips, of a brisk cannonade at daybreak, abandoned their barricades in the course of the night. Many of them left their arms behind them; a considerable number were taken prisoners; more escaped by concealing themselves in houses until such time as the national guards, all danger being over, retired to their homes. On the 29th, Madrid was as quiet as if nothing had occurred.

A foreigner, lately resident in this capital, and who, within little more than a year, has acquired a rather unenviable celebrity, is here generally believed to have had a hand in the outbreak of the 28th ultimo. I refer to the Minister of the United States at Madrid. A Frenchman by birth, but compelled to abandon his country previous to the revolution of 1830, in consequence of certain political writings, M. Pierre Soulé settled on the other side of the Atlantic, and became heart and soul an American. A man of great energy, vigorous intellect, and considerable astuteness, he attained to high practice at the bar, to a seat in Congress, and to the leadership of the party which seeks, without much regard to the means employed, to annex Cuba to the States. With that unscrupulous party, his open profession of the most distorted views on questions of international right made him highly popular. From his seat in the Senate, early in 1852, he bitterly attacked the government of Mr Fillmore for not taking up the cause of the adventurers under Lopez; some of whom had been executed, and others sent to prison, for their piratical attempt on the island of Cuba. In 1853, shortly before his appointment as minister at Madrid, he made a long and eloquent speech, in which he lauded Lopez and his companions as heroes, indulged in stinging sarcasms on Spain and Spaniards, and, speaking of Cuba, urged the government, in metaphorical phrase, not to delay too long to pluck the fruit from the tree, lest it should rot upon the stem. This is the man whom Mr Franklin Pierce thought proper to send as envoy to Spain. You will remember that, on his arrival at New York to embark for Europe, a meeting was held in that city, composed of members of the Lone Star Society, of fugitives from Cuba, and of other partisans of annexation, who proceeded to serenade him, bearing banners on which were inscriptions coupling Mr Soulé’s name with the rescue of Cuba from the Spanish yoke. A member of the procession made a high-flown speech, in which he expressed a hope that, when the honourable envoy returned to his own country with fresh claims upon the esteem of his fellow-citizens, a new star would shine in the celestial vault of Young America. M. Soulé replied to this address, referring to Cuba as a suffering people; and declaring that, as an American minister, he did not cease to be an American citizen; and that, as an American citizen, he had a right to attend to the sobs of anguish of the oppressed. Taken in connection with his harangues in the Senate, and with the address to which it replied, his speech was certainly most significant, indiscreet, and offensive to Spain. It caused great scandal, not only in Europe, but amongst the right-thinking portion of the people of the United States. Mr Pierce was loudly censured for the appointment, and American newspapers declared that it was his duty, as soon as he knew what had passed in New York, to send a steamer after Mr Soulé to bring him back, since he had proved himself completely unfit to fill the office of American minister in Spain. I believe it to be a fact that the United States did not expect their envoy to be received as such at Madrid. But they underrated the meanness and pusillanimity of the Spanish ministry then in power. After some delay at Paris, employed, it was said, in ascertaining what sort of reception awaited him in the Spanish capital, Mr Soulé proceeded to his destination. He had been but a short time there, when an unfortunate affair brought him into bad odour. At a ball at the French ambassador’s, the Duke of Alba, referring to Mrs Soulé’s dress, which struck him as peculiar, compared her to Mary of Burgundy. Probably the comparison was not very apt; possibly the grandee who made it was not particularly conversant with the costumes of the middle ages: there certainly does not appear to have been any offensive intention of comparing persons, but merely of criticising a costume. Mr Soulé’s son, however, a very young man, overheard the remark, took it in bad part, and provoked the Duke of Alba. The result was a bloodless duel, fought with very long swords, lasting a very long time, and followed up by a very long letter to the papers, which Mr Soulé, jun., had, for his own sake, much better have left unwritten. Out of this affair grew a second duel, more serious in its character and results, between Mr Soulé and the French minister at Madrid. They fought with pistols, and the Marquis de Turgot received an unfortunate wound in the leg, which, to this day, compels him to use crutches. The whole details of these unpleasant circumstances were at the time placed before the public by the English and French press, and the general opinion certainly seemed to be that the Soulés had unnecessarily commenced, and afterwards wilfully aggravated a foolish quarrel, which, as new-comers to the country and considering the diplomatic character of the senior, and the imputations of hostility to Spain under which he laboured, they ought to have done their utmost to avoid. Be this as it may, and without entering into the political animosities that are said to have mingled in the affair, the Spaniards naturally took the part of their countryman and of M. Turgot—the case of the latter exciting particular sympathy, since he had been dragged into and maimed in a quarrel with which he had not the least concern. Thenceforward the society of Madrid avoided that of the Soulé family.

These unpleasant incidents had scarcely ceased to arrest the public attention, when the affair of the Black Warrior again brought Mr Soulé’s name prominently before the world. This affair has been so much discussed that its main facts must be generally and well known, and I will use the utmost brevity in here recapitulating them, which I do for the sake of adding a few comments, and of relating one or two circumstances in the dispute to which they gave rise that I believe are not widely known. On the 28th February last, the Black Warrior steam-ship, a regular trader between Mobile and New York, arrived from the former place in the port of Havanah. She was entered at the custom-house as in ballast, and the manifest presented was conformable with that declaration, ship’s provisions being the only cargo set down. Her clearance was then applied for; but on the searcher from the custom-house visiting the vessel, she was found to be cotton-laden; whereupon her departure was stopped, and judicial proceedings were commenced, the delay having expired that is allowed by law for the rectification of the manifest. Article 162 of the Customs Regulations of the Havanah states, that “after the twelve hours allowed by Article 15 for the rectification of, or addition to, the manifest, shall have expired, all goods that may have been omitted in it shall be seized; and, moreover, the captain shall be fined to the amount of their value, provided always the amount of duty which would have to be paid on the contents of the package or packages do not exceed four hundred dollars; because if it exceed that sum, and if the goods belong, or are consigned to, the owner, captain, or supercargo, the fine shall not be imposed, but, instead of it, the vessel, together with its freights and everything else available, shall be seized.” This is explicit enough; and it is to be noted that a copy of the custom-house regulations, printed in English, was handed to Captain Bullock, commanding the Black Warrior, as soon as he entered the port. By order of the authorities the cargo was landed, and found to consist of 957 bales of cotton. The amount of seizure and of fines incurred was very large, and the Marquis of Pezuela, captain-general of the Havanah, desired the superior board of administration to consider the matter, with a view to its reduction. That board fully confirmed the legality of the steps taken and fines imposed, but left it at the discretion of the captain-general to reduce the latter if he thought proper. He consulted the attorney-general of the island, who recommended their reduction to ten thousand dollars, exclusive of all expenses incurred in discharging the cargo; but general Pezuela finally decided to reduce the penalty to six thousand dollars, including all costs and charges. In the mean time the consignees had made various applications to the captain-general, admitting their fault, declaring the captain’s omission to have arisen from ignorance, pleading ignorance on their own part also, begging that the vessel might be allowed to depart upon payment of the transit duties, corresponding to a ship laden as she was; and, finally, when the fine of six thousand dollars was definitely fixed upon, entreating its further reduction. This, however, the captain-general, who had officially announced his decision, refused to grant; but he forwarded a petition from the consignees to the Queen of Spain, in which it was set forth that there could have been no fraudulent intention—cotton not being an article of consumption in the island of Cuba—in which the heavy loss arising from the detention, discharge, and reloading of the vessel was urged, and the remission of the fine craved. This prayer was subsequently granted; but before that was done the dispute between Spain and the United States had assumed menacing proportions.

This statement of well-ascertained facts shows the Cuban authorities to have acted strictly within the law throughout the whole business, and with great clemency to the persons who had transgressed it. If it suited American vessels, trading between Mobile and New York, to call at the Havanah to take in coals, or for other objects, they were bound to comply in every respect with the laws and regulations of the colony, and could not expect to get off scot-free if they transgressed them. But there is a circumstance to be taken into consideration which somewhat modifies this view of matters in the case of the Black Warrior. It appears that, owing to the remissness, indulgence, or—it has been suggested, but I have not seen it proved—the corruptness of the Cuban authorities, the Black Warrior had been in the habit of entering the port with a cargo, exhibiting a manifest that stated her to be in ballast, and being entered and cleared accordingly, and that she had actually made more than thirty voyages in that manner without let or impediment. It is scarcely possible that this should not have been known to the Cuban custom-house, and if so, it must be admitted that the course pursued on the occasion of the voyage made in February 1854 was, although doubtless strictly legal, harsh and injudicious. The neglect to enforce the law on more than thirty previous voyages might not suffice to abrogate it; but it should have induced the Cuban authorities—though it had been but from considerations of prudence—to re-enforce it less suddenly. It is easy to understand that the new captain-general, and one or two other newly-appointed and high functionaries, who had gone out with him to the Havanah only a few weeks before the occurrence of the difficulty, were fired with zeal for reform; and it is stated that, during the first few months of their administration, the revenue of the island increased. But they should have gone to work more coolly and gradually. In consideration of the long impunity the irregularities of the Black Warrior had enjoyed, it would surely have sufficed, on the 28th February, to have warned the captain and consignees that such could be no longer permitted, and that, on her next voyage, the law would be rigidly enforced, should occasion be given. Towards a country of equal or inferior power, this would have been the fairest and most proper course to pursue; but towards so potent and aggressive a neighbour as the United States, it was most unwise to adopt any other. But although numerous misrepresentations have been circulated on the subject, this fault of judgment is the only one in the affair of the Black Warrior that can fairly be imputed to General Pezuela and his subordinates.

Of course, the business was a godsend to President Pierce and the annexation party in the United States. The former forthwith sent a strong—I might almost say a violent—message to the House of Representatives, declaring the seizure of the Black Warrior to present “a clear case of wrong,” attributing habitual misconduct to the authorities of Cuba, and stating that he had already given instructions for the demand of an immediate indemnity; in the event of the refusal of which, he declared, in menacing terms, that he would “vindicate the honour of the American flag.” Now Mr Soulé appears again upon the scene. The demands addressed by him to the Spanish government were an indemnity of £60,000 sterling, the dismissal of all those Cuban authorities that had been concerned in the proceedings against the Black Warrior (this would of course include General Pezuela, although his name appears not to have been mentioned in the note), and finally that, in future, the governor of Cuba should have power to settle disputes with the United States without reference to the home government—an arrangement directly opposed to the colonial policy of Spain. As may be supposed, the Spanish ministry demurred to such exorbitant and unreasonable demands. Calderon de la Barca, the feeble and timid foreign minister of the Sartorius cabinet, was no match for Mr Soulé. He even suffered himself to be bullied by the American secretary of legation, who, on conveying to him a communication, took out his watch and stated the exact time he would allow him to answer it. And although Sartorius came to the aid of his aged and incapable colleague, he quickly disgusted Mr Soulé by his double-dealing, evasions, and procrastination. None of the communications that have passed during the discussion of the Black Warrior affair have as yet been published in Spain, or, that I am aware of, in America. All the correspondence that passed in Cuba is before us, so that we are enabled to form an opinion on the merits of the case; but there our documentary information stops. What is positively known from other sources is, that there seemed so little chance of the affair being settled with Mr Soulé, that the Spanish government directed Señor Cueto to try to arrange it at Washington, and sent after him, soon after his departure, by Señor Galiano, notes and instructions to aid him in the task. For a considerable time after that, scarcely anything was heard of the matter; and there is strong reason to believe that Mr Soulé was himself left without communications from his government for a length of time that annoyed and perhaps surprised him. This naturally awakens a doubt whether his proceedings have been altogether approved at headquarters. His friends here maintain that they have. It is presumable that they derive their information from himself.

On the 1st of August last, in compliance with the desire of the United States Senate, President Pierce sent to it a message with respect to the state of American relations with Spain since his former menacing message of the 16th March. All that he said that directly referred to the Black Warrior affair, was that Spain, instead of granting prompt reparation, had justified the conduct of the Cuban authorities, and thereby assumed the responsibility of their acts. The tone of the whole message was threatening to Spain, and the probability of war at no distant period was plainly indicated. It nevertheless excited little apprehension here, where it was generally considered to be merely an unprincipled attempt, on the part of Mr Pierce, to regain, by an appeal to the passions of the people, the popularity he had lost, and at the same time to keep up alarm in Cuba, and to wear out the energies of Spain, in hopes that at last, disheartened and intimidated, a Spanish government would be found willing to sell the island. It is doubtful, however, whether any Spanish minister would dare to entertain proposals for its purchase. Mr Soulé has declared himself, in his place in Congress, decidedly opposed to that mode of acquiring Cuba, on the ground that it must, at no distant date, fall into the lap of the Union without costing a dollar. This declaration is nearly tantamount to saying that it is less expensive to take a thing by force than to buy it with money, and conveys pretty much the sentiment for the practical carrying out of which on a small scale, men used to be hung, and are now transported. Mr Soulé is unquestionably a man of talent—eloquent, wary, skilful in adapting himself to the persons with whom he comes in contact—but he is deficient in good taste, as he has more than once shown since he came to Madrid, and his patriotism and philanthropy, with respect to the island of Cuba, smack too strongly of piracy to obtain much respect in Europe, however acceptable they may prove, and however loudly they may be applauded, in a lodge of the “Lone Star,” or at a New Orleans public meeting. But although “Cuba without cost” may be the device inscribed on his banner—a black one, it is to be presumed—when he came to Spain as the representative of his government, he was bound to obey his instructions, and these, there can scarcely be a doubt, were to offer a large sum of money for the much-coveted island. Knowing what we know of the Sartorius ministry, we are justified in believing that they would have had no objection to effect a sale which they assuredly would have made the means of filling their own pockets. But however inclined they may have felt, they dared not do it.

For some weeks the Black Warrior question had been comparatively little spoken of in Madrid, and the general opinion seemed to be that it had been amicably adjusted at Washington, or was in a fair way to be so, when the O’Donnell insurrection and the July revolution concentrated the public thought on home politics. Things had scarcely begun to settle down, when, on the 21st August, the arrival of the President’s message of the 1st once more drew attention to Cuba, and to the state of affairs between Spain and America. Just a week later, on the 28th, occurred the outbreak I have described in the early part of this letter. On that same day, before the revolt was suppressed, it was said in Madrid that the American minister was concerned in the insurrection. The next day, when things were quiet, the part he was alleged to have played was matter of common conversation, and then the newspapers took up the matter. The _Diario Español_, usually one of the best written and best informed of the Madrid journals, which supports the present government, and is believed to be the special organ of General O’Donnell, published on the 30th August a very strong article on the subject. It had been stated the day before with truth that Mr Soulé was about to leave Madrid for France, and the supposition had been added that he did so in order to avoid being in the Spanish capital when news should arrive of a piratical invasion of Cuba by citizens of the United States. Taking this for a text, the _Diario Español_ indignantly asked if Mr Soulé feared for his personal safety, and mistrusted the honour of Spaniards. He would have no cause for such apprehension, the paper continued, “even if he had been wanting in the respect due to the nation, and had sought by every means to favour projects tending to deprive Spain of her most precious colony: even if it were certain that he had sought to profit by the days of degradation of the Spanish government (under Sartorius), and to take advantage of the insatiable voracity of high and low influences: even if it were certain that he had endeavoured to profane the sanctity of the revolution, and to sow discord amongst the people, seducing the unwary, engaging in a vile intrigue, giving money and promising arms to destroy the power of the honourable and patriotic men who now direct the destinies of Spain: even if he had succeeded in gaining over a few deluded persons who had failed to discern, through the cloud of his honeyed and flattering words, the latent idea of keeping up agitation and disorder in the Peninsula, and so of depriving Cuba of the succours the mother-country might otherwise send thither: even though the people knew that he had attempted to take advantage of a moment of effervescence traitorously to excite its indignation, and to hurry it to revolt.” This was pretty plain speaking. On the same day that the article appeared, Mr Soulé addressed an angry letter to the _Diario Español_, which did not publish it. The letter afterwards appeared in a French frontier newspaper. The following is a translation of its contents, as given in the _Bayonne Messager_ of the 9th August:—

“MADRID, _30th August_.

“_A Monsieur le Directeur du Diario Español._

“Sir,—The tone and character of the article concerning me published in your sheet of this day, too plainly prove the influences that have inspired it for me not to honour it by a word of reply.

“I leave Madrid because it pleases me to leave it, and because I have no account to render to anybody, either of my proceedings or of the motives that determine them.

“I will never absent myself from any place through fear of being insulted or put in peril by those whom my presence may displease.

“I do not fear impertinence, nor even assassins.

“And especially, Sir, I do not fear the people.

“The people respects what deserves to be respected;—it brands only the miserable men who flatter and deceive it.... It fights—but it does not assassinate.

“As to the perfidious insinuations of which your article is full, they are beneath my contempt.

“I leave to you the merit of the varnish with which you have covered them, and, to those who dictated them, the infamy of their invention.

“I am, Sir, your Servant, “PIERRE SOULÉ.”

The charges brought by the _Diario Español_, and to which the above characteristic epistle was the reply, were endorsed to a greater or less extent by public opinion in Madrid. On the 12th of August, Mr Soulé, unable to attend the banquet given by the Press, had addressed to the committee of management a letter, in which occurred the following passage: “The heart of Young America, doubt it not, will palpitate with joy and delight at the breath of the perfumed breeze that shall waft to it across the ocean the acclamations of liberated Spain. May I be permitted to say, that mine is intoxicated with felicity by the hope that Europe, apathetic though it seem, will not suffer those germs of regeneration, which the sublime sacrifice of some of her sons has just so miraculously caused to sprout, to become debilitated, and to die.” It is charitably supposed, by those who credit the American minister’s participation in the events of the 28th August, that the intoxication referred to in this flowery and figurative paragraph had not entirely passed away at that date, and that the writer of the letter to the dining committee thought it his duty, as the representative of Young America, to contribute his aid to that germination of regeneration which apathetic Spain showed herself tardy in promoting. At the same time, there certainly are not wanting evil-disposed persons, who affirm that Mr Soulé has so concentrated his vision on his adopted country, that he can scarcely discern any other; that he looks with contempt upon the herd of slaves who range about Europe, and that to him it would be matter of indifference to see the Old World perish, so that the New World prospered—and, with it, his ambition. It has further been said that, neither prudent nor scrupulous in the means he employed, he condescended assiduously to court that Dowager Queen whose whole life has been a contradiction to the principles he professes, and to admit the society of a yet more illegitimate influence at the Spanish court. It has been declared, and believed by many, that Mr Soulé, knowing that the government of Espartero and O’Donnell was not one that he could either intimidate or buy, and beholding in its character an insurmountable obstacle to the attainment of the great object of his desires, resolved to work for its downfall by every means in his power, and that, notwithstanding his fervent sympathy with the welfare and liberties of Spain, he would have preferred either anarchy or despotism to the triumph of a system which, whilst maintaining those liberties, rendered more and more remote the prospect of realisation of that cherished project, whose accomplishment would introduce a new star “into the celestial vault of Young America,” and at the same time vastly add to the importance and popularity in the States of the American minister at Madrid. All these things have been said, and have found wide credence in this capital and elsewhere.

Enough, however, on this branch of the subject. The sum of ten million dollars, demanded by Mr Pierce to make head against the possible contingency of a war with Spain, having been refused him by the American Senate, the probabilities of such a war occurring are greatly diminished, and the Spanish government entertains little apprehension on that score. Upon the other hand, notwithstanding Mr Pierce’s declaration in his Message of the 1st August that the whole of the means which the constitution allows to the executive power should be employed to prevent the violation of law, treaties, and international right, contemplated by certain citizens of the United States, who, as the government was officially and positively informed, were fitting out an expedition for the invasion of Cuba—notwithstanding this assurance, I say, there appear grounds for fearing that, owing perhaps to the weakness of the executive arm in the States, the expedition in question will yet sail for the coveted shores of the Pearl of the Antilles. Whether, if attempted, it will meet the fate of that under Lopez, or whether it will succeed, not only in landing, but in holding its ground until it can receive those reinforcements which would probably flock to it from the Southern States, as soon as it became known there that it had occupied, and was maintaining, a position, is a matter of anxious uncertainty. The island is strongly garrisoned, but American riflemen are formidable opponents. The Spanish government feels confident of the result, and fully reckons on the fidelity and valour of the two or three and twenty thousand good troops now in Cuba. Where the Americans will be most deficient will doubtless be in cavalry and artillery. The Spaniards have a thousand dragoons, several batteries of field-artillery, and numerous large Paixhans guns garnishing the forts and batteries of the island. And although Spanish cavalry, judging from what we see here, is generally but indifferently mounted, it is abundantly able to cope with irregular infantry, and indeed would prove most formidable to the invaders, if they ventured forth from the shelter of forests and hedges, or from the broken ground favourable to sharp-shooters. As to the courage of the men, when well led, there is no doubt of that. Good leading, which they have rarely had, is all that Spaniards want to be as valiant troops as any in Europe. Only the other day, at Vicálvaro, with General Garrigó and other brave and determined officers at their head, regiments of dragoons repeatedly galloped up to the very mouths of batteries, which received them, at a few yards’ distance, with volleys of grape. Men who would do this, would hardly flinch from charging irregular riflemen, however accurate and deadly their fire. The Spanish artillery is considered the best arm in the service; it is certainly the one with which the most pains are taken, and which possesses the best-instructed officers. The infantry now in Cuba is about twenty thousand strong, well disciplined, in good condition, and accustomed to the climate. Were these forces, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, concentrated in the field against the American pirates, it is difficult to believe that the latter could succeed in getting together, or at least in landing, a force capable of resisting their attack. To speak positively on this point, however, it would be necessary to be somewhat in the confidence of the _filibusteros_, or at least to know more than is positively known of their resources, plans, and places of rendezvous. But even supposing that they muster more than we, in our imperfect information, think probable, it is to be borne in mind that the very best irregular troops, however formidable their valour and skill with their weapons may render them in small numbers, are far less to be feared when they act in large masses. Then the deficiency in discipline and drill tells heavily against them. I am far from underrating the indomitable pluck of the Americans, or their coolness or steadiness when in peril, and only desire to see those valuable qualities displayed in a better cause than the one to which we are assured they are shortly to be devoted. But in an open plain, or in the attack of a fortress, and when opposed to regular troops of average bravery, something more than pluck and coolness is required. Upon the other hand, it must not be forgotten, when we seek to strike the balance of chances, that the garrison of Cuba could not be brought entire into the field. Certain forts, and towns, and positions must be held, and although it is probable that many of these would be left to the keeping of the numerous volunteers that would take up arms the moment an invasion occurred, still portions of the garrison must be detached from the main body. An intelligent Spaniard, who has spent several years in Cuba, and but recently returned thence, gave it me as his opinion that from ten to twelve thousand men could be employed as the army of operation. He estimated the present garrison at rather under twenty thousand men effective for the field, which is somewhat less than the government estimate. The European Spaniards in the island he believed to be about fifty thousand, a large proportion Basques and Catalans, and who would readily enrol themselves as volunteers in case of peril, would prove formidable antagonists, and fight desperately for their homes and property. As to the native Cubans, many of them would be likely to join the Americans, if these were strong, and gained advantages at first starting; but if the invaders were worsted, the Cubans would fly to arms and vaunt their fidelity to Spain. The negroes, who have no wish to exchange Spanish for American masters, and who are aware of the many disadvantages under which even a free man of colour labours in the States, would all be ready to fight, if arms were given to them. The negro mode of fighting, as described to me by persons who are well acquainted with it, is peculiar and dangerous. They fire a volley, receive the enemy’s fire, throw away their muskets, and rush in with cutlass or poniard.

The long narrow shape of the island of Cuba, which bears a strong resemblance to a lizard with the head looking eastward, is favourable to its defenders, since it facilitates the cutting off of the invading force. It will be a great advantage if General Concha’s arrival takes place previously to any attack. He is the very man to command under such circumstances. Quick of eye and ready of resource, he will inspire the troops with confidence, and raise the courage of the Cubans. Amongst these he has, what no captain-general of Cuba in our time has had, a strong party—persons who are attached to him, like his mode of administration, prefer him to any other captain-general, and will stand by him to the utmost with all the influence and power they may possess. This is a principal reason why he readily and gladly accepted the destination towards which he is now steaming,—if indeed he has not arrived there, since his departure from Corunna took place upwards of a fortnight ago. The Spanish government—and indeed Spaniards generally, as far as my means of observation extend—entertain a sanguine belief that, with the troops at his command, and with the moral and physical support of the majority of the dwellers on the island, Concha will so handle the intruding annexionists as to make them heartily repent their unprovoked and unjustifiable aggression.

There are other points to be taken into consideration when we discuss the probable issue of the anticipated conflict. One of these, on which such conflicting testimony has been given that it is scarcely possible to form a decided opinion with respect to it, is the amount of support the Americans would find in the island itself. The Spaniards, as I have above intimated, think it would be unimportant. Ask a Yankee annexionist, and he will tell you that the whole island, with the exception of the European Spaniards resident in it, pines for release from the intolerable yoke of Spain, longs to hoist the Stripes and Stars, and to cling to the proud neck of the American eagle. I have been told by Americans of the numbers of letters received from inhabitants of Cuba, expressive of these sentiments, and imploring sympathy and assistance. But it must be observed that a few malcontents, or American settlers in the island, would suffice to circulate an immense number of such complaints and prayers. One may imagine, for instance, the consignees of the Black Warrior, after inditing their submissive and penitent letters to the governor-general, and their petition to the Queen of Spain for the remission of the fine, dipping their sharpest iron pen into the ink-bottle, and relieving their afflicted souls by throwing off screaming despatches to their friends in New York and New Orleans, inveighing against the tyranny of Spanish rule, and longing for the day when Cuba should join the Union. By those to whom such letters were welcome, they would naturally be made the most of; they would be handed about, talked of, and their contents verbally repeated, until it would seem as if a hundred letters had arrived instead of one. The Spaniards themselves admit that a part of the Creole population would be glad to see the island detached from Spain. To these I suppose we may safely add, as partisans of Cuba’s becoming a State of the Union, all the Anglo-Americans resident in the island. Beyond this, I am in possession of no trustworthy evidence; and when I say that only a small portion of the Creoles or native whites are disaffected to the Spanish government, I state it, as you will observe, on Spanish authority, but, at the same time, on the authority of Spaniards long resident in the island, particularly capable, by their position and intelligence, of forming a correct judgment, and the sole drawback to the value of whose opinion is the admissible supposition that it may be biassed by their natural wishes on the subject.

Supposing that, in the autumn of 1854, an American expedition, starting from Florida, or from one of the small islands in the Bahama channel, made a descent upon Cuba, were entirely worsted, and cut off or compelled to re-embark. How long a time would elapse before a third expedition were got ready? Would not the interval probably be shorter than the one between the Lopez expedition and the present date? The dogged tenacity of a certain class of Americans, when bent upon acquisition, is well known. And is it not probable that each expedition would exceed the preceding one in strength, until one went forth strong enough to triumph? The passage of the island from the feeble hands of bankrupt decrepid Spain into the strong ones of the young and vigorous Union, is a mere question of time, unless other nations interfere. Are any prepared to do so? England and France are of course the only powers to which Spain might look for aid to prevent her being robbed of her last valuable colony. And would she not look to them in vain, at least under present circumstances? I do not believe that the Spaniards reckon on such assistance. The reflecting portion of the nation—those who think upon the subject at all—seem convinced that the island must sooner or later pass from them. Some would be disposed to sell it, whilst it still has value, before the Americans feel so certain of getting it by other means that they will no longer feel disposed to disburse. Others, on the contrary, are for holding it to the last, burning the last cartridge before giving in, and, as a last desperate resource, emancipating the slaves. The most rational and profitable of the two courses would doubtless be the sale. And yet, owing to the ignorance and national conceit of a large number of Spaniards—who believe that the valour of Spanish troops must always suffice to guard Cuba, and who have not sufficient knowledge of the past and present history of the world to see that in the course of nature they must lose it—it would be difficult for any ministry to brave the storm of indignation that would here be raised by the sale of the island. It could, of course, under the present regime, be done only with the sanction of the Cortes; and perhaps the wisest thing the Espartero ministry could do would be to bring forward the subject when that body meets in November. To give advice to Spain is, I am aware, a delicate thing for foreign governments to do, but the men at present at the head of affairs here are not likely to mistake the motive, or to take offence at a well-intended counsel. If England and France be quite decided to take no steps towards the preservation of Cuba to Spain, and if the government of this country be not already perfectly aware of that decision, it would be but right to give it the information, so that it might fairly and fully appreciate its position and chances, and not delude itself with vain hopes, never to be realised, of ultimate succour from powerful allies.

Assuredly no Spanish government was ever more in want than is the present one of the pecuniary supplies which the sale of Cuba would place at its disposal. The state of the finances of the country is lamentable, and ministers are the more to be pitied, since their embarrassed position is the consequence of no fault of theirs, but of the scandalous misrule and malversation of several preceding governments, and especially of that of Sartorius. The Spanish and English newspapers have already supplied many details on this head. I will content myself with throwing together a few of the principal and most striking facts. When the present government assumed office, it found an empty treasury, and, even worse than that, the resources on which it might have reckoned for advances were already anticipated. There was no money anywhere. The Sartorius-Domenech-Collantes ministry had made a clean sweep of everything. The forced loan decreed on the 19th May, and which was to be paid during the months of June and July, had not flowed in with that gratifying rapidity announced by the organs of the _Polaco_ cabinet; but nevertheless about four hundred and seventy thousand pounds sterling had been collected, out of nearly two millions, which it was estimated that it should yield. Of the £470,000, about £140, or thirteen thousand reals, remained in the treasury. The confusion in the public accounts rendered necessary the appointment of commissioners to investigate them, and to report the real state of the finances. The labours of these commissioners brought to light a whole system of iniquity and of downright robbery. The most shameful jobs had been perpetrated; funds set apart for particular purposes, and which could not legally be otherwise employed, had been misappropriated; enormous amounts had been expended in secret-service money, of which no account was to be found; everything the government had to pay was in arrears, and all they had to receive was in advance. The result of the examination was to exhibit a balance against the treasury amounting to seven millions sterling, of two and a half millions of which the payment was urgent. To meet this heavy deficiency, equal to half a year’s revenue, the new ministry had literally nothing but their good intentions and recognised honesty—excellent things, but not always convertible into specie. The consequences of the revolution added to their embarrassments. Nothing was to be obtained from the provincial treasuries, which were found to be nearly all empty, some of them having been drained to the last real by the departed ministers; whilst in other cases there is reason to conclude that the local juntas, formed during the revolution, had spent the money. During the latter half of July, every place had its junta, legislating as it thought fit, taking off taxes, admitting foreign goods free of duty, sapping the foundations of the revenue. The effects of this on the revenue for the month of July was a diminution of a quarter of a million sterling, or fully one-fifth. Although, early in August, the juntas were prohibited from passing laws and altering the established system of the country, whilst since then many of them have altogether dissolved themselves, fears are entertained that for some months the revenue will continue below what it is in ordinary times. The period of revolution was a jubilee for the smuggler. At some points of the frontier he was suddenly converted into a fair trader by the abolition, decreed by juntas, of all import duties. But, amidst the confusion consequent on the revolution, he nowhere had any difficulty in carrying on his commerce. From Gibraltar, from Portugal, from France, foreign goods poured in, to the exhaustion of the smuggling depôts in those three countries. Those large illicit importations must for some time to come have a serious effect on the custom-house revenue. It is predicted that the falling-off in the whole revenue for August will be even greater than in that for July. This appears to me doubtful, although nearly certain in the item of custom duties; and on the other hand, we may hope the expenditure will be less under an honest and economical government—whose economy, however, has not, in every instance, been as rigorous as itself, I fully believe, earnestly desired. The difficulties environing a government that is borne into power in Spain on the billows of a revolution like that of 1854, are not to be imagined by any who have not witnessed them. To form some faint idea of them, one must be acquainted with the ramifications and extent of the _empleomania_—mania for place—which is the great curse of Spain, and which, when one beholds the extent to which it is carried, makes him almost despair of the improvement of the nation. It were reasonable to suppose that when Espartero and his colleagues took office, under as difficult circumstances, certainly, as any set of men that ever accepted it, even here, they would be allowed to give their whole time and undivided attention to the necessities of the country, to the getting rid of abuses, to the introduction of proper economics, to the adoption of measures calculated to improve the wretched financial situation. Not so: the idea of their supporters evidently was that their first duty was the portioning out of places, not only to old friends, but to many new ones—_libéraux du lendemain_. From the day they took office down to the present date, ministers have been besieged, pestered, overwhelmed, by a stream of applicants eager to live upon the budget. Espartero, from his popularity and influence, was the chief victim of these cormorants. For a very long time his anterooms were thronged from early morning till late at night, by persons who could not go away, who _would_ see the general, although perhaps the request they had to make had no possible connection with his department, and should have been addressed to some other minister, to the intendant of the palace, the captain-general of the province, or the civil governor of Madrid. Sometimes, when there were thirty or forty persons waiting at the door of his cabinet, all deaf to the remonstrances of weary _aides-de-camp_, he would come out himself, as if in despair at ever obtaining repose, despatch them all, one after the other, as quickly as might be, and then retreat with his secretary into his private room, giving orders that nobody should be admitted, to try to get two or three hours’ uninterrupted work before the usual hour for the sitting of the council arrived. And then the host of letters—nearly all prayers and petitions, setting forth the services and sufferings of the writers, and their strong claims to place or patronage! The supplicants were of all kinds and classes; from the colonel who thought his merits would not be over-rewarded by a brigadier’s embroideries, from the aspirant to some fat berth of many thousand reals a year, down to the suitor for a porter’s place or a sergeant’s stripes, and even to individuals desirous of being appointed _quitamanchas_, grease-spot extractors (fact) to the palace, and who could think of no more fitting person to apply to than the prime-minister. Ah this greedy mob pestered, and still pester, the president of the council, and in a less degree the other ministers, with their daily applications. The craving after place is disgusting to behold, and extends, with a few honourable exceptions, through all classes. As to patriotism in Spain, I have the utmost difficulty, after witnessing what has followed upon this revolution, in crediting its existence, except in the breasts of a small minority of the population. Patriotism here appears to consist in turning out one party in order that another may step into the enjoyment of the good things it possessed. It is truly sickening to hear the selfish cuckoo-song of the seekers after places, to hear them vaunt their past services, and tell of their sufferings for the liberal cause during the eleven long years that succeeded 1843—sufferings consisting, for the most part, when they come to be inquired into, simply in exclusion from those loaves and fishes for a share of which they now hungrily plead. With a certain and too-numerous class of Spaniards, a man is a patriot and a martyr by the mere fact of his drawing nothing from the treasury. There were many persons who really had done great service to the triumphant cause; men who had risked their lives, laboured hard, and been forward and most useful in the hour of danger. These men, on account both of their merits and of their abilities, had not to solicit, but were at once placed in high and responsible situations. For each one appointed, how many malcontents were made! Of these malcontents some must be conciliated; others had claims which deserved attention, and which they had not sufficient self-denial and love for their country altogether to withdraw. Under these circumstances, how was it possible for the government to economise as it should and might have done? The pressure brought to bear upon it, the influences exerted, were more than it could resist, and many a place was given that ought to have been suppressed in the interest of Spain’s exhausted treasury. It gives small hope for the future of a country when one sees even the best of her sons doing nothing without hope of reward, nothing for the pure and disinterested love of their native land. And to this rule, in Spain, I fear there are but few exceptions.

A careful investigation and calm review of the present state of the finances of Spain, leave upon the mind a strong doubt as to whether a national bankruptcy can possibly be avoided. I have exposed the misery of the treasury, as left by the ministry of Sartorius—seven millions sterling deficiency, and not as many pence in the coffers of the State for the pressing necessities of the new government. With some difficulty, and by the aid of the signature of the San Fernando Bank, the finance minister has obtained about fifty thousand pounds sterling, secured on colonial revenues. Of course, a very short time will see the last of that small sum; and what is then to be done, in presence of a revenue which it is expected, with good show of reason, will, for some time to come, be below an average? Economise, it may be said; but economy is not to be effected, on an important scale, at a few days’ notice. It is probably in the army that reform and reduction, if made, would most rapidly be felt. It is said to be the intention of the minister of war greatly to reduce it; and no opportunity can be better than the present, for when all the men who, in virtue of the boon of two years’ remission of service lately granted to the whole army, have completed their time, shall have received their discharge, the military forces of Spain will probably be smaller than they ever have been since the beginning of the Carlist war. The expense of the Spanish army is about three millions sterling—an enormous burthen on the scanty revenue. There are other burthens more difficult to diminish. The system pursued in this country of turning out numbers of public officers and employés when a new government comes in, to make room for its friends and supporters, has loaded Spain with pensions, half-pay, and retired allowances. These amount to a million and a half sterling. How is this load to be lightened? But very gradually, it is evident;—by filling up vacant places with pensioned men, whose pensions thereupon cease. To abolish all those pensions not due to long service or ill-health would be to condemn thousands of families to starvation, and to raise a storm that no government could withstand. Such a sweeping measure would not be just, nor is it practicable. A reform of the tariff is an obvious and most effectual means of improving the financial position. Let the government reduce the duties on foreign manufactured cottons to twenty per cent _ad valorem_. The importations (chiefly contraband) of that class of merchandise at present amounts, as I am informed, to about three millions sterling. A twenty-per-cent duty would demolish the smuggler, and yield the revenue six hundred thousand pounds a year. Would it not then be possible for Spain to get a small loan on reasonable terms, the coupons being accepted, as soon as due, in payment of custom-house duties, and an arrangement, or the promise of an early one, being at the same time made with respect to the amount of coupons which Bravo Murillo laid upon the shelf? It is, however, unnecessary to answer this question until we have reduced the duty. Here, again, great difficulties present themselves, and jealous interests bar the way. Catalonia and the smugglers would be in arms the very moment such a measure was promulgated. Catalonia, which produces (I speak from experience of its goods) wretched wares at exorbitant prices, has long been the great impediment to Spain’s prosperity, or at least improvement. That one province pretends to make the whole country buy its inferior merchandise in preference to that of England and France; and this pretension it enforces, to the great profit and contentment of the contraband trader. Time and a strong government are needed to bring about that reduction of duties on foreign manufactures which would prove so great a benefit to Spain, and to its revenue. And at present, time is wanting. Something must be done quickly. As things now stand, it is hard to tell whence is to come the money for the next dividend on the home and foreign debt. At this date but a small portion of the last dividend due on the home debt has been paid. It has been suggested that much will depend on the composition of the constituent Cortes. If the country elects representatives who will support the present government, and so give confidence in its duration and strength, it is thought that capitalists will perhaps be found to come to its aid. But if the good sense of Spanish electors prove unequal to the emergency—if they return a Chamber composed of a mixture of demagogues and of partisans of reaction, and not containing a good working majority in favour of the policy of moderate progress, which is that of the Espartero-O’Donnell cabinet—there is nothing but fresh trouble in store for Spain, and the question of finance will then appear almost hopeless.

Whilst contemplating the gloomy, or at least uncertain, prospects of the Spanish treasury, I am forcibly reminded of Cuba and of American proposals for its purchase. I have not heard a statement of the exact amount the States are disposed to give; but I have been assured, on no mean authority, that it would suffice to pay off the whole of the debt, home and foreign, and that a handsome surplus would still remain for roads and railways. Besides these advantages, Cuba, once sold, Spain might safely reduce her fleet and army, for she would then have no reason to apprehend war with the United States, as she at present has none to anticipate aggression or interference on the part of any European power. Relieved of her heaviest burthens, and blessed with an honest government (if indeed it be possible that such endure in a country upon which the curse of misgovernment seems to rest), Spain might soon and easily forget the loss of that cherished colony, whose retention, under present circumstances, is more a question of pride than of profit, and to whose loss without compensation, she must, I fear, by the force of events, be prepared sooner or later to submit.

VEDETTE.

_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._

-----

Footnote 1:

_Of the Plurality of Worlds; an Essay. Also a Dialogue on the same subject._ Second Edition. Parker and Son, 1854.

_More Worlds than One, the Creed of the Philosopher, and the Hope of the Christian_, By Sir DAVID BREWSTER, K.H., D.C.L. Murray, 1854.

_The Planets: Are they Inhabited Worlds?_ Museum of Science and Art. By DIONYSIUS LARDNER, D.C.L., Chapters i., ii., iii., iv. Walton and Maberly, 1854.

Footnote 2:

_Works_, vol. xi. p. 198 (Bishop Heber’s edition). The following is the entire sentence of which the above is the commencing section: “Whatever we talk, things are as they are—not as we grant, dispute, or hope; depending on neither our affirmative nor negative, but upon the rate and value which God sets upon things.”

Footnote 3:

_Dialogue_, p. 37.

Footnote 4:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 59.

Footnote 5:

_Dialogue_, pp. 5, 6.

Footnote 6:

_Daily News._

Footnote 7:

_Essay_, p. 120.

Footnote 8:

_Ante_, p. 300, No. cccclxvii.

Footnote 9:

_Essay_, p. 202.

Footnote 10:

Ibid., pp. 134–136.

Footnote 11:

Ibid., p. 137.

Footnote 12:

One or two of these “Discourses,” all of which were delivered in the Tron Church, Glasgow, at noon on the week day, were heard by the writer of this paper, then a boy. He had to wait nearly four hours before he could gain admission as one of a crowd, in which he was nearly crushed to death. It was with no little effort that the great preacher could find his way to his pulpit. As soon as his fervid eloquence began to stream from it, the intense enthusiasm of the auditory became almost irrestrainable; and in that enthusiasm the writer, young as he was, fully participated. He has never since witnessed anything equal to the scene.

Footnote 13:

_Essay_, pp. 193, 194.

Footnote 14:

In the “Dialogue,” Dr Whewell states that it was not till after the publication of his “Essay” that he became acquainted with the fact of the coincidence of his views, on the subject of Geology, with those of Mr Hugh Miller, in his “First Impressions of England,” with reference to astronomical objections to Revelation.

Footnote 15:

Ibid., chap. vii., § 1, p. 206.

Footnote 16:

Ibid., chap. vi., § 27, p. 190.

Footnote 17:

_Essay_, pp. 191, 192.

Footnote 18:

Ibid., p. 148.

Footnote 19:

Ibid., pp. 151, 152.

Footnote 20:

Ibid., p. 154.

Footnote 21:

Ibid., p. 166.

Footnote 22:

Ibid., p. 155.

Footnote 23:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 52.

Footnote 24:

_Essay_, p. 188.

Footnote 25:

_Essay_, pp. 198–199.

Footnote 26:

Ibid., p. 203.

Footnote 27:

_Ante_, p. 289.

Footnote 28:

_Essay_, p. 194.

Footnote 29:

_Essay_, p. 195.

Footnote 30:

Ibid., p. 196.

Footnote 31:

Even of monkeys, there have been found fossil remains.

Footnote 32:

_Essay_, p. 197.

Footnote 33:

_Essay_, p. 198.

Footnote 34:

Ibid., pp. 199, 200.

Footnote 35:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 237, (we quote from the first edition).

Footnote 36:

Ibid., p. 230.

Footnote 37:

Ibid., p. 240.

Footnote 38:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 202.

Footnote 39:

Ibid., p. 199.

Footnote 40:

In fact, in a note to page 247, Sir David thus slily alludes to those “conjectures” of Dr Whewell in his _Bridgewater Treatise_, to which we have referred (_ante_, pp. 290, 291):—“A very different opinion is stated by Dr Whewell, in his _Bridgewater Treatise_;” adding, after citing the passages, “the rest of the chapter, ‘_On the vastness of the Universe_,’ is well worthy of the perusal of the reader, and forms a striking contrast with the opinions of the Essayist.”—This is perfectly fair.

Footnote 41:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 98.

Footnote 42:

Ibid., p. 108.

Footnote 43:

Ibid., p. 166.

Footnote 44:

_More Worlds than One_, pp. 180, 183.

Footnote 45:

Ibid., p. 185.

Footnote 46:

_Essay_, ch. vii. sec. 17, p. 221.

Footnote 47:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 248.

Footnote 48:

_Essay_, chap. x. sec. 10, pp. 308, 309; chap. xii. sec. 1, p. 359.

Footnote 49:

_More Worlds than One_, pp. 178, 179.

Footnote 50:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 18.

Footnote 51:

_Dialogue_, pp. 62–64.

Footnote 52:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 131.

Footnote 53:

Ibid.

Footnote 54:

Ibid., p. 138.

Footnote 55:

Ibid., p. 139.

Footnote 56:

Ibid., p. 140.

Footnote 57:

_More Worlds than One_, pp. 141–142.

Footnote 58:

Ibid., p. 151.

Footnote 59:

Ibid., p. 152.

Footnote 60:

Ibid., p. 153.

Footnote 61:

Ibid., pp. 44–47.

Footnote 62:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 47.

Footnote 63:

Azoic signifies those primary rocks which contain no traces of organic life, no remains of plants or animals.

Footnote 64:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 52.

Footnote 65:

Ibid., p. 206.

Footnote 66:

_More Worlds than One_, pp. 206, 207.

Footnote 67:

A thirtieth planetoid was discovered by Mr Hind since the publication of the second edition of the _Essay_.

Footnote 68:

LARDNER, _Museum of Science and Art_, vol. i. p. 156.

Footnote 69:

_Dial._, p. 60.

Footnote 70:

Ibid., p. 28.

Footnote 71:

_Museum_, &c., vol. i. p. 64.

Footnote 72:

P. 271. Her distance from us is 240,000 miles; and our Essayist, by the way, tells us (chap. x. §7) that “a railroad-carriage, at its ordinary rate of travelling, would reach her in _a month_.” We should not like to travel by the Lunar Express, but should prefer the parliamentary train, and hope, starting from the Hanwell station, to get to the terminus in a couple of years or so. Good Bishop Wilkins intended to be taken up by birds of flight trained for the purpose. When the Duchess of Newcastle asked him where he intended to bait by the way, he answered, “Your Grace is the last person to ask me the question, having built so many _castles in the air_!”

Footnote 73:

_Essay_, p. 272.

Footnote 74:

Pp. 80, 81.

Footnote 75:

_Museum_, &c., vol. iii. p. 48.

Footnote 76:

P. 108.

Footnote 77:

P. 24.

Footnote 78:

_Museum_, &c., vol. iii. p. 109.

Footnote 79:

P. 112.

Footnote 80:

Ibid., vol. i. p. 63.

Footnote 81:

_More Worlds than One_, pp. 97, 101.

Footnote 82:

Pp. 99, 100.

Footnote 83:

_Essay_, p. 278.

Footnote 84:

_Essay_, p. 281, 289.

Footnote 85:

Brewster, p. 60.

Footnote 86:

To descend, for a moment, to details. Sir David Brewster will not allow himself to be driven to elect between the icy or watery constituency of Jupiter. He declares direct experiment to have proved that it is neither; that if Jupiter were a sphere of water, the light reflected from his surface, when in his quadratures, must contain, as it does _not_, a large portion of polarised light; and if his crust consist of mountains, precipices, and rocks of ice, some of whose faces must occasionally reflect the incident light at nearly the polarising angle, the polarisation of their light would be distinctly indicated. The Essayist, in his _Dialogue_, “doubts whether the remark is applicable; for Jupiter’s watery or icy mass must be clothed in a thick stratum of air, and aqueous vapour, and clouds. But even were the planet free from clouds, the parts of the planet’s surface from which polarised light would be reflected, would be only as points compared with the whole surface; and the common light reflected from the whole surface would quite overwhelm and obliterate the polarised light.”—_Dial._ p. 64. We cite this as a sample of the ingenuity of both disputants, in a point of scientific contact. Whether Sir David’s conjectural polarised light be or be not thus obliterated, in our view the item in dispute is quite lost in the general question, and the great principles on which its solution depends. If driven to elect between ice and water, asks Sir David playfully, “may we not, upon good grounds, prefer the probable _ice_ to the possible water, and accommodate the inhabitants of Jupiter with very comfortable quarters, in huts of snow and houses of crystal, warmed by subterranean heat, and lighted with the hydrogen of its waters, and its cinders not wholly deprived of their bitumen?”—Pp. 236, 237. The answer of his opponent would be obvious.

Footnote 87:

Brewster, p. 61.

Footnote 88:

Ibid., p. 62.

Footnote 89:

Ibid., pp. 65, 66.

Footnote 90:

Ibid., pp. 68, 69.

Footnote 91:

_Dial._, p. 6.

Footnote 92:

Ibid., p. 23.

Footnote 93:

_Dial._, p. 76.

Footnote 94:

_Museum_, &c., vol. i. p. 35.

Footnote 95:

_Dial._, p. 23.

Footnote 96:

Lord Byron—Hebrew Melodies. “The philosopher will scan,” says Sir David, at the close of his eloquent Treatise, “with a new sense, the lofty spheres in which he is to study.”—P. 259.

Footnote 97:

Pp. 164, 165.

Footnote 98:

Isaiah, xlv. 9.

Footnote 99:

Isaiah, lv. 8, 9.

Footnote 100:

_Essay_, p. 244.

Footnote 101:

Pp. vii.–viii.

Footnote 102:

_Essay_, pp. 243, 244.

Footnote 103:

See them specified, p. 251.

Footnote 104:

_Cosmos_, iii. 373.

Footnote 105:

Ch. viii., _passim_.

Footnote 106:

_Dial._, pp. 20–23.

Footnote 107:

_More Worlds than One_, Ch. vi., _passim_.

Footnote 108:

_More Worlds than One_, Ch. viii., _passim_.

Footnote 109:

Ibid., p. 164.

Footnote 110:

Ibid., p. 119.

Footnote 111:

_Essay_, p. 257.

Footnote 112:

_Lect. on Astron._, 2d edit. (1849.)

Footnote 113:

Pp. ix. x.

Footnote 114:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 176.

Footnote 115:

_Essay_, p. 211.

Footnote 116:

_Essay_, pp. 235–236.

Footnote 117:

_Dial._, p. 18.

Footnote 118:

_Essay_, p. 214.

Footnote 119:

Ibid., p. 216.

Footnote 120:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 215.

Footnote 121:

_Essay_, p. 298.

Footnote 122:

_More Worlds than One_, p. 315, and note.

Footnote 123:

Ibid., p. 315.

Footnote 124:

Romans, i. 22.

Footnote 125:

Matthew, vii. 26.

Footnote 126:

_Dialogue_, p. 74.

Footnote 127:

Isaiah, lxiv. 4; 1 Cor., ii. 9.

Footnote 128:

John, xiv. 2, 23.

Footnote 129:

_Dialogue_, p. 42.

Footnote 130:

_Wisdom of God in the Worlds of Creation_, vol. iii. p. 265.

Footnote 131:

_Monthly Magazine_, A.D. 1798—art. “Walpoliana.”

Footnote 132:

Matthew, vii. 24.

Footnote 133:

This must evidently mean Loufti Pasha, who was grand vizier from A.D. 1539 to 1541.

Footnote 134:

This passage may be admitted as a proof that the tribute of children was not regularly exacted from the population of the capital. The difficulty Mohammed the Second found in repeopling Constantinople explains the exemption.

Footnote 135:

_Glasgow Records_, ii. 341.

Footnote 136:

Ibid., p. 343.

Footnote 137:

Ibid., p. 422.

Footnote 138:

“Gladios, pugiones sicas machæras rhomphæas acinaces fustes, præsertim si præferrati vel plumbati sint, veruta missilia tela sclopos tormenta bombardas balistas ac arma ulla bellica nemo discipulus gestato.”—_Fasti Aberdonienses_, 242. The Glasgow list is less formidable: “Nemo gladium pugionem tormenta bellica aut aliud quodvis armorum et telorum genus gestet; sed apud præfectum omnia deponat.”—_Instituta_, 49.

Footnote 139:

_Instituta Univ. Glasg._, p. 519, 520.

Footnote 140:

_Fasti Univ. Glasg._, p. 548.

Footnote 141:

_Hist. Univ. Paris_, iv. 266.

Footnote 142:

_Fasti_, p. 400.

Footnote 143:

Ibid., p. 400.

Footnote 144:

There was an attempt to _enforce_ returns upon religious and educational statistics, but, in the words of the Report, “It was, however, considered doubtful whether, upon a rigid construction, the Census Act rendered it compulsory upon parties to afford information upon these particulars; and the inquiry was, therefore, pursued as a purely voluntary investigation.”—_Report_, No. 1.

Footnote 145:

“The weight of the schedules, blank enumeration-books, and other forms despatched from the Central Office, exceeded fifty-two tons.”—_Report_, No. 1.

Footnote 146:

LAYARD. Alexander the Great, after he had transferred his seat of empire to the East, so fully appreciated the importance of those great works that he ordered them to be cleansed and repaired, and superintended the work in person, steering his boat with his own hand through the channels. Similar operations undertaken now would again restore to Mesopotamia its old fertility, and fit Babylon, not only for regaining her place as the emporium of the Eastern world, but for becoming the great entrepot of commerce between the West and East, which will ere long, in consequence of the introduction of railways, again flow into its old overland route by Palmyra, through the deserts, from the Levant to the head of the Persian Gulf.

Footnote 147:

Ctesias and other writers speak of the Bactrian and Indian expedition of Ninus and Semiramis; and in connection with this it is important to notice, that upon the obelisk discovered at Nimroud—which belongs to the period of the earliest palace, having been erected by the son of the founder of that building—are represented the Bactrian camel, the elephant, and the rhinoceros—(all animals from India and Central Asia)—brought as tribute by a conquered people to the Assyrian king.

Footnote 148:

The Hon. James Thomason, late Lieutenant-Governor of the North-West Provinces, who lingered too long in India, chiefly in the hope to have been present on the occasion above commemorated.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like 1^{st}).